Goddamn the universe and its attempts to keep me humble.

For all the accomplishments I’ve amassed in my thirty-one years on this planet, an out-of-the-blue text message from someone listed in my phone as Restaurant Douche-Canoe is not one of them.

My morning is completely derailed, which is a shame. It was going so well.

I can handle the rain. I look forward to it, the start of summer and its thunderstorms inevitable this time of year in Florida. What I can’t handle is the unsolicited phallic images I received before the clock struck seven.

It’s a brutal reminder of why the extent of my personal life consists of spending what little free time I have at home and far away from the gender that has the balls—literally—to ruin my day before I’ve had any caffeine.

A crime if you ask me, and I do what any normal person would do after being blindsided by disappointing pornographic photos by an equally disappointing man: I fill a chipped mug with an aggressive pour of coffee. Step onto the porch in an oversize T-shirt that reaches my knees and mismatched socks that come halfway up my calves. I take a seat on the wood swing hanging in the corner and hit a thumbs-down on Dick Douche’s message to really deal a blow to his ego.

Free from penis hell and one step closer to shunning technology, a sigh escapes me when I glance up at the sky. Clouds of menacing shades of gray make their way across the horizon. A smile comes next, unbridled delight when the wind blows through in a strong gust.

I’ve always been happier outside, the girl who grew up with dirt under her fingernails and grass stains on her knees. An affinity for rain and open fields instead of four-lane highways.

I love the end of May and the blistering heat of Florida Junes the most. I crave the swampy middle of July and look forward to sticky, unbearable August when the air shifts to an indulgent, lazy haze. The suffocating kind that holds you tight and never lets you go.