I am sweating as I type this. Sweat is literally dripping out of my armpits and down my arms, staining my shirt and offending passersby. Oh, I'm sorry. Were you eating?

I am sweating and it's November. What the hell? Last week at this time, the crisp fall air was preparing me for the cool, chilly months ahead. Now, someone somewhere has turned on a cosmic oven and is using said oven to bake people. Today's special is soylent green and you're having me for dinner.

Not only am I hot externally, but my internal organs are overheating as well. I think I may have had too much Halloween candy, because my stomach is alternating between doing flips (the better to tan more evenly) and gurgling violently, which is oh-so-attractive when you're trying to impress a date. "No, I don't know either. We did just have hamburgers, didn't we?" Even getting up to put the food out of my immediate reach is an ordeal. It's the same feeling I get when I swing too high too quickly in direct sunlight and it usually requires that I find somewhere to lie down.

I don't want to give the wrong impression, namely that I'm a crazy person who prefers the frozen tundra and is planning a move to Alaska after graduation. I enjoy the heat: the wet, humid heat of my youth, the dry, unassuming heat of the American southwest, the perpetually beating sun that proclaims from its perch that summer has arrived. I have a healthy appreciation for the heat, really.

But I'm about as orderly (and self-possessed) as that dog Crispin's Crispian: a place for everything and everything in its place. I like my summers scorching hot, my winters freezing cold, and my in betweens to fade neatly between these extremes. Mother Nature, on the other hand, is apparently schizophrenic.

One week in September, the temperatures will drop into the 60s. Just as we snap up sweaters at Old Navy and stock the refrigerator with apple cider, 80 degree afternoons return to taunt us. Once we've accepted the returning warmth with open arms, the ground freezes over and we awake to fields of frost (although it is a common misconception, frost is not frozen dew. Let it not be said that I don't pay attention in geography.). Why must the weather taunt us like this?

Ideally, the humidity that plagues our summer months would head south for the winter around mid-September and we'd be treated to comfortable, breezy low 80s for a few weeks. The temperature would fall slowly and subtly over the next weeks, sort of a "frog in boiling water" theorem in reverse. We'd barely realize by the end of October that fall weather had arrived, all "When did we break out the pullovers?"

Alas, these Indian summers taunt and tease me, warping what's left of my brain into something akin to heatstroke. How else to explain an afternoon in front of I Love the '80s Strikes Back? "Too weak to reach remote and change channel. Pass...candy." It's rough in the dorm rooms themselves, like living inside a giant thermos. It keeps hot days simmering and cold days iciclic. (Yes, I just coined the word 'iciclic.' I'm telling you I've lost control of my mental faculties.)

weather.com says it'll be in the 80s for most of the week, but temperatures will dip into the 60s for the weekend before climbing right back up. It's November and I'm in a generally wintry climate. I'm in the northern part of Alabama, just south of real, actual snowfall. Meanwhile, temperatures in the part of Illinois where I grew up are hovering around the mid-40s, which is true November weather.

I talk a good game about wanting to live in the big city, but it'd have to be New York over Los Angeles because from what I understand, a SoCal Christmas is in the 50s at best. If the mercury is above freezing on Jesus' birthday, I'm going to be upset. Give me the blizzards and snowmen over Christmas Eve at the beach any day. It's just...unnatural. I can get into palm trees and sandcastles around my birthday in June, but can you imagine living in Australia, where the whole thing is naturally reversed? I'd have to be committed.

"They're coming to take me away, ha-ha...."

Someone got here by searching for: porno that has been blocked Reading: A Tru Calling recap. That show is not long for this world. Watching: Kelly Ripa on Saturday Night Live. Excepting the hair commercial, the Angelina Jolie kick, and a truly terrible recall election joke, it was ninety wasted minutes. Listening to: Flogging Molly. Eating: Ohh, no more food. Take it away.