Dear Texas Sun, I know we agreed that I would never complain about the heat if I could escape those ridiculous Chicago winters. And you reserved the right to be very hot, or insanely hot, or even savagely, soul crushingly hot. Today though, you were hotter than that. When I got into my car I considered suicide; as I pumped gas, I began to speak in tongues. Not a formal complaint – I just think you’re being a dick.