My body is not a finely tuned machine. It is a questionable collection of too sweet blood, c-grade organ meat and hundreds of thousands of dollars of pharmaceuticals. This particular compilation of materials does not care for the heat. Or the sun. Or, for that matter, the summer.

At the beginning of each summer, my entire body fills with a low thrum of dread that I may be forced to spend all day at a family picnic watching a loosely related group of Bud Light Loyalty Customers play horseshoes while I–with nary a video game in sight–have to deal with whatever children they have custody of for the weekend. It’s been multiple decades since a parent could even drag me to something like that and much worse things have happened to me in the interim–hell, much worse things were probably happening to me at the time–but it’s the horrors that could have been avoided that stick with you the most.

To be fair, I don’t necessarily blame anyone for that. I was born cranky and I’ll die cranky. I don’t really hold on to good memories either; most memories don’t stick with me unless I find them funny, so my recall on the trip to the Sandwich Glass Museum is a little fuzzy, but I remember every time my mom’s ex fell asleep on the toilet.

If I think about it, I can recall good things that happened during the summer. There was no school for one. And using my child of divorce powers, I saw Terminator 2 like 4 times even though I was way under 17. But I don’t get a visceral summer nostalgia because the things that I associate with summer–surf, sand, and fun–are not things that I care to associate with myself.

And then it happened.

A wonderful summer memory floated to the surface as I sat directly in front of the air conditioner and played Street Fighter II. This is what summer meant to me. The cold air drying out my eyeballs. The Street Fighter II AI absolutely handing me my ass. Shirtless and screaming “how is he throwing two sonic booms?!” while drinking soda in a room so cold it doesn’t really need to be refrigerated. Summer is here and I’ll be goddamned if I spend it outside with the bugs.

And yes, in the picture above those are official Chester Cheetah glasses I got for buying two bags of Sweet Carolina Reaper Cheetos.