If I did sweat I would be dripping with it. My pajama pants soaked, my cotton tank sticky, my one sheet and three comforters and red blanket all kicked off of my loft bed and down six feet to the cluttered floor. Sweat or no sweat, I’d had enough.

Now it was one thing for Alan Levy to invade my family, to fix my computer, to light the barbeque grill that had a thing against women lighting it--but it was quite another for him to presume that some like it hot.

I, for one, do not like it hot. I like it cold. Very cold. Obnoxiously, some would even say. I like to feel like my feet are numb and my nose is falling off my face. I find that very relaxing and in fact so relaxing it puts right to sleep. So no, Alan Levy, I do not like it hot.

I get up. This is when I first notice the headache. It is a little thing. Just like a plate the size of a business card flipping over inside my skull. Headaches always go hand in hand when I sleep in the heat. Oh, Alan Levy you will suffer for this.

I get up. I climb down my latter, the metal of which isn’t even cold which is a hazard in and of itself. See, were it cold, it might have woken me up enough not to fall down and land unceremoniously on my laundry basket. (I need to do laundry.)

I walk down the hallway. I approach the thermostat with determination, and I lay my stake. My house. My air conditioning. I subtract 30 degrees from the hell pit of my family home. With great satisfaction I lay myself down to rest, thinking with such naivety that I will fall finally sleep.

It’s footsteps I hear. I hear them because I have only just gotten under my one sheet, three comforters, and red blanket and I have hardly even begun to take off my glasses when I hear them and I know that this is war.

Alan Levy has gotten up. He has walked out of the bedroom. And he has turned off the air conditioner. OFF. As in this man is slowly plotting the death of me. You think I’m paranoid? Well, I’m not. I know what this man is capable of! He feeds his fish other fish! This is not irrelevant! It’s clearly the path of homicidal destruction he has only begun to unleash on me and my delicate temperature NEEDS.

I do not so much as tug as rip off my blankets, jump off my bed, run down the hallway and turn that air conditioner RIGHT BACK ON.

OH NO YOU DO NOT ALAN LEVY.

I am not leaving this hallway, I will stand here all night, protect my territory, unleash all sorts of mayhem, scream at five different volumes..and..and…

See--You would understand if your bed was like mine. If it was nice and comfortable and dark and….

It turns out I can sweat, which is what I find out when I wake up to my alarm clock the next morning. The incessant beep of it is louder..oh god so much louder than any other morning of which Alan Levy is not ruining my well-earned rest. DAMN YOU LEVY. Oh, head--very bad, this is very bad.

I glare at Alan Levy over my apple juice, as he leaves the house that morning, taking the left overs from last night’s dinner. He and I do not share words. We have dignity.