And the real irony, the part that makes me mad; I can't grow lemons, or wisteria. Bougainvillea or peaches. I can swelter in the the humidity laden air, my northern-bred lungs barely able to expand and contract as I try to simply walk, but I can't grow these things, because sometime in December and January and February it will be -30 and maybe -40. I think I shall become as mad as Blanche Dubois.
Southern authors wrote of madness. Was it the unrelenting heat that drove these people out of their heads, or was it a repressive/excessive life that did it? I do rather enjoy reading of the festering rot beneath the surface, no matter the reason. Or maybe very much because of the reason. But that is for another time, my fascination for southern literature.
I am not fascinated by their weather and I want to give it back. Now, please. If I can't grow the plants you can because of this unholy heat, I don't want any part of it, none. My flowers are wilting, I am a befuddled mess and I give this back to the places that say y'all whilst they bless your heart.
I expect my own climate to return, posthaste. I thank you in advance.