I live in an apartment with no central air. Not a smart move if you live in, say, Florida. I know. But the lease lasts until March and my supply of "fuck you" money isn't where it should be. So I call a hot, one-bedroom apartment home.
And spend a lot of time on The Patio.
During the summer, not only is it miserable in here, my sweltering apartment, but my electric bill is double — cuts into my beer money and everything. When I do turn on the wall unit, it sounds like the roar of an ancient helicopter, one that's never gonna make it off the helipad. People come over from MacDinton's to see what the hell is happening.
It's embarrassing.
There are eight apartments in my near-century-old building. All of them have central air except mine. I'm considering sleeping in the cool of the hallway. My fellow upstairs neighbors are females. They tell me we have a mouse. Or mice. The rodents don't hang in my apartment, I explain, it's too fucking hot.
