It's that time of the year. Sweat. A lot of it. The sun does not shine; it beats, down, unrelenting till you begin to reverse your initial derision of Sartre's Nausea, realizing, "He may be onto something," as your hand slips down the F train's pole covered in the grease and grime of the other nameless and unwashed masses who have tried, unsuccessfully, to steady themselves against the smogged humidity.

So, in short, it's hot. Here's some music I've been listening to distract me from the sweltering and melting and the unnecessary encounters with moist bodies. Also, I had ice cream for lunch yesterday. So, yes, Mom, I'm a real adult.