Writing and sweating

Wow, it's hot as h*ll in here! Okay, okay... so no one outside of Hades actually knows how hot it really is over there, but try writing in a tiny, windowless room... no air conditioning, with only a little electric fan pathetically blowing more hot air at you...
Anyway, so it's summer... a great time for us writers of murder, death, evil and mayhem. Summer's when most murders are committed, and usually by someone acquainted with the victim... Oh, the juicy plots that spin like poisoned gossamer threads from our vile and sickly minds! Think about it... jealous lovers, abusive spouses, lover's triangles, stalkers, cougars, maniacs, psychos, the guy next door, the gal behind the counter at the 711... all broiling, melting, chafing, sweating in this heat... all that's needed is the right word or deed at the wrong time (or vice versa) and all Hell can break loose! Would a writer tired of laboring anonymously in a hot, windowless room, angry at all those rejections, finally snap at yet another interruption at the door by his significant other? Would he grab the ludicrously expensive gift pen he received last Christmas and answer the door, drenched in sweat and madness with the intent, premeditated or not, of plunging said pen into the eye of the interrupter? Oh, devilish muse... oh, heated day and humid night... why torment me. I labor and sweat, sweat and labor, my clothes and hair plastered to me by my own perspiration... the stink, the discomfort... and yet I must write... I must answer the call of my slaving, slavering muse... but wait... is that a knock on the door? Didn't I tell everyone I was not to be disturbed? They'll be sorry... now where did I put that pen...?