Florida has two seasons: Hot as the Sun and Rain from Hell. You walk outside in July and immediately regret your life choices. It’s not just hot—it’s soup. The humidity hugs you like a toxic ex, and don’t even try to wear jeans. People here don’t sweat—they simmer. Your AC runs nonstop, and still, you question whether clothes are even worth the effort.
Rain in Florida isn’t a polite drizzle—it’s sky rage. One moment you’re sipping iced coffee, next minute you’re in The Day After Tomorrow. The weather app says “10% chance,” which in Florida means “carry a boat.” And the best part? It pours like madness for ten minutes, then the sun pops out like, “What? I didn’t do anything.” Your umbrella’s just for emotional support.
Hurricanes are Florida’s version of a surprise party. You never really know when one’s coming, but when it does—oh, it’s a full production. Boards on windows, lines for gas, and people fistfighting over bottled water like it’s Black Friday. Floridians act casual too: “It’s just a Category 2.” Sir, the roof is gone, but okay, let’s grill.
Winter in Florida is confusing. One day it’s 85°F and you’re sweating at a Christmas parade. Next day it drops to 50°F and everyone’s in hoodies like we just relocated to Siberia. Floridians own exactly one jacket, and it comes out once a year—covered in dust and pretending it’s seen snow.
