* I really want to say the f*&k word because I feel like it drives my point home more resolutely, but our ad company wrist slaps us for curse language. So, there you go.
With the official kick-off for fall just days away (fall equinox, that is), the plaid flannels are upon us. And I for one could not be more pleased. I’ll take the cozy clothes. Pile the scarves around my neck. Stack the knit hats atop my chilly head. BRING IT ON, FALL. Here’s the thing, I don’t want to say I hate summer, I mean, that’s not really fair to summer, what did summer ever do to me? OH THAT’S RIGHT. It left me pale and sweaty and devoid of all energy and joy.
Okay, that’s not entirely true. Some of summer was marvelous. There were beach trips and camping trips and trips to places with pools. But the hot part of the summer was just hot — hot and terrible. There is no person more ready for fall than this person.
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Summer is supposed to be all fun and games. Beach balls and bikinis. Watermelon and waterslides. Berry picking, bitches. BERRY. PICKING. Because of this culturally implied Super Fun Summer Time, whenever you say you don’t love summer people look at you like you just told them you wanted to kill a baby or something. But I’m coming out of my seasonal closet; I just don’t really like summer.
Look, some of us delicate flowers are just not cut out for oppressive heat, okay? I’m not talking like 85 and breezy. I’m talking about the kind of heat where sweat pools in your crotch making you look like a perpetual piss-pants. You know, the weather where you really have to wear shorts or dresses so you don’t die from heatstroke, but hate wearing shorts or dresses because every time you wear shorts or dresses your thighs try to light each other on fire. Yes, it’s that awful time of year where you step out your front door and the humidity slaps you in the face like the diaphanous little bitch you are. That fantastic season where sitting in your car for 12 minutes with the windows up and no AC could literally kill you dead.
NO THANKS. I prefer my crotch sweatless, my thighs smooth as uncharred velvet, and my car not a mobile coffin.
I love fall! Give me all the gourds. Bring on the weirdly displayed dead corn. Cover me from head to toe in handknits. Go ahead neighbors, rake up your leaves into a huge pile for my kids to jump in and scatter everywhere. SORRY NOT SORRY. I’ll take three pumpkin pies, thank you very much.
Except it seems like fall isn’t really coming. I keep looking up at the trees hoping for hues of orange and gold but seeing green. I think we’ve maybe cancelled fall? Of course, by ‘we’ I mean human beings. Because did you know there is a literal island of garbage in the ocean? It is actually SNOWING in Canada and 95 in California. Climate change is real and it’s our fault.
I could still be swimming if I weren’t so gatdang sick of summer. But I’m not doing it. I’m roasting butternut squash like the rebel I am. I’m baking some muthafreaking pies. I’m drinking my caramel apple spice (nothing says “basic ass bitch” like a PSL; level UP with me; COME TO THE CARAMEL APPLE SIDE [though, it is where are the Mormons are], k?). I’m wearing a scarf even though it’s 80 and I am probably developing a debilitating case of heat exhaustion.
I’m honestly scared that someday there may be no fall at all. What will happen when we live in an incessant summer? I’ll move to Canada; it’ll probably be snowing there.