It’s cruel how quickly the seasons change. One week I was sitting in my boxers, sweating profusely while drinking ice water (which promptly turned to hot water in my hands). The next, the sky has turned an even hazier gray, and the mornings are less than tepid. So I suppose that the weather has not changed too much, except that the difference is excrutiating without hot water. Thus, my mornings have become a painful foray into Antarctic chills. I wake up, having covered up from the fan above me, which is used to keep the air moving and, my roommate claims,
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