[ WP ] You were born with the most important superpower of the modern age , the ability to manipulate the global temperature . But , the ability is keyed to your moods .

At 6 AM, a mighty thud shook my house, cutting short the nice dream I was having in which some higher-order being was the one responsible for the temperature. I had dropped to the floor and scrambled fully beneath my bed before realizing it was n't an earthquake: it was even worse. Damnit, how had they found me again? 
 
 From outside, the speakers began to blast their usual script. `` Every thirty seconds, a polar bear dies from heatstroke.'' For what little it was worth, the climate change activists were the least obnoxious of all the groups that regularly came to pester me. I peered out my front window: sure enough, they had erected their projector screen and begun to play the dying baby polar bear slide show I had seen at least a hundred times already. They could've at least made a new one: I had seen Perry and Popo and Patrick die so many times that it was beginning to lose its emotional impact. 
 
 `` Hey, missy!'' A man in a suit had noticed me looking through my curtains and stormed up to my window. `` You better lower the temperature this instant, or you'll be sorry when your heating breaks!'' 
 
 The radiator sales industry was on the opposite end of the annoyance spectrum; they tended to resort to scare tactics to try and sway my mood. Recently, they had threatened to impose a nationwide boycott on selling to me if I did n't lower the temperature in time for winter. In my mind, it was a dubious strategy: first of all, I did n't even need a radiator if I maintained the warmth outside, and second of all, their ham-fisted attempts to cow me made me angrier than afraid, thus keeping the temperature high. Their plans were miraculously not the worst of the bunch: North Face had threatened to somehow render all my clothing choices fashionably obsolete if I did n't comply with their demands for cooler temperatures. 
 
 `` Go blow hot air somewhere else,'' I shouted back at him. 
 
 `` Yeah, if you need someone to *vent* to, we're here for you.'' Another man approached him from across my front yard. Judging from his uniform, he was a member of the nationwide union of air conditioning repairmen. 
 
 `` Do n't listen to these people, girl. Just keep trucking; we got your back.'' A woman with an ice cream cone hat joined. 
 
 I was naturally predisposed to supporting the groups who strove to make me happy—the farmers, the convertible manufacturers, the beachwear industry—even though I knew most of them did n't give two shits about my actual feelings; they just wanted to profit off the warm weather. In the past, some assholes even had the bright idea of trying to make me angry in order to keep the temperature high, under the impression that it was easier than making me happy or something. Even after three years, I can still remember that annoying sun screen commercial that played 24/7 on the lawn of my third house. They had n't stopped until I had gotten so angry that their equipment melted. 
 
 `` She's killing our jobs!'' A spokesman from the hot cocoa industry threw himself onto the grass in what I can only assume was an attempt to elicit my sympathy. 
 
 `` The ice caps are melting day by day,'' the loudspeaker droned. 
 
 Perhaps it was time to move again. It had only been a week, so most of my belongings were still packed in my boxes. At this point, was it worth bothering with even a semi-permanent residence? They would find me again, and they would set up their speakers and projectors and one-act-plays to try and sway my emotions. Settling down would never be a realistic option. 
 
 As I slumped against the wall, a chill overtook me, and a cheer resounded from outside my window. `` We did it!''
