Cold is the absence of heat. Heat is the absence of cold? Nah. Heat is more like a shot of whiskey (or so I’ve heard.) It’s like the time when your boyfriend can’t believe you don’t know there are lamps made just for warming things up. What? Am I suddenly a reptile now? Or like that time when you were sexually harassed and you keep hearing their dirty words, making your face turn crimson at the thought of embarrassment, helplessness, and indignation. Heat is when you’re shivering and you need to cuddle with your boyfriend because his body is an oven. But you don’t really want to pull a Sylvia Plath. The thought of her only makes you shiver more. It’s like drinking a white chocolate mocha from Starbucks for the first time in Chicago and letting it warm you down to the core. It announces itself in August when you are least expecting it and all you have to show for it is the sweat coming down, running to escape the inferno inside of you. Heat is like the kind of warm hug that only Olaf can give. It’s one candle you hold in your hand, supposed to represent a light to those who need to see it, and then you blow it out.

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