I love my apartment, but being here all the time points out to me with a flashing neon sign its one very glaring flaw: It’s fucking hotter than hell in here.

I live on the second floor of my building. There’s very little shade, the airflow is poor, heat rises from downstairs, and when the marine layer burns off, the sun just flat-out bakes my apartment.

Consequently, even though most of my windows are open and I have 2 fans going and it’s 62 degrees outside right now, it’s still over 75 degrees in here. It was over 80 this afternoon.

When I run my window unit a/c, which I try to do minimally, it creaks and sadly fights to keep the place under 75.

There’s an apartment that might be coming open downstairs, a little more money but it’s already remodeled and it has a small patio.

I’d been considering moving down because of the foot, but right now I’m thinking I might melt before the foot gets better if I don’t move.

Using the tried and true method of “weigh self holding cat, then put cat down and weigh self, then subtract,” I was aghast to discover that Chaplin now tips the scales at almost 17 pounds.

I put him on the “weightloss/hairball control” formula of cat food when he hit 16, and while he stayed at 16 for a while, I can’t figure out why he’s suddenly started gaining again.

The only thing I can think of is that since I’m now home to notice that his food dish is empty as soon as he finishes with it, I might be feeding him more.

Still, it explains why I fear my ribs are going to crack whenever he comes and sits on my chest.

I’ll have to keep a better eye on his food, otherwise I’m going have to get him a little kitty treadmill.