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My parents moved me to Birmingham, Alabama when I was three and I didn’t leave until I was twenty-four. More than any smell, sight, or sound, the one thing that immediately brings on a rush of memories to this past is oppressive, energy-sapping, summer humidity. Walking through any other place where the air feels like it might spontaneously congeal into sweat-flavored jello makes me not so nostalgic for my past, but embittered.

Why did my parents force this hellish place on me? When I turned twenty-five, however, I moved to Austin, Texas for five years, a place now near unlivable in the summers. Thankfully, I removed myself from these sadistic, open air dungeons of hot water vapor and spent the last ten years in the Pacific Northwest, New England, and the Northeast. I’m not sure this means anything at all, but it does seem that the most important moves of my life are now dictated by my expectation of the weather.

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