July is my least favorite month. Most people experience seasonal depression in the winter, but I experience it July-October. Maybe it’s because I live in this strange no man’s land between the swamplands of the Florida coastline and the south Georgia farmland. Historically, people came here to quail hunt each winter, only to flee for the summer months ridden with mosquitos of nightmarish size and oppressive humidity. Even the wildest of dreamers will be suppressed by the heat. New Yorkers and Arizonians may think they know heat; yeah, sure, the concrete of the big apple absorbs the sun’s rays, and the deserts bake to no end, but this part of the world is different. Here, we steam. It’s this inescapable swollen pocket of damp heat that gradually intensifies as the summer mercilessly marches on into the months of fall. I’m no stranger to the heat—I was born in Texas and raised north of Atlanta—but the summers here are a torture truly unique unto themselves...