Its a mood. Its a few weeks. I should expect stench, ungodly disgust, and skin I can’t un-see. If I wanted to feel like a steaming puddle of filthy rainwater with specks of iridescent oil floating on top, then I am surely home. If I wanted to start melting right out of the ice-cream machine, then hello. But wait! I am well prepared for the dead of summer this year, I lack flip-flops or beach chairs, but I am preemptively dead inside. Take that, summer. I am on to you.
Put your brightly colored straws up your own nose. Laugh at your own hysterical jokes. Fall in love with someone else. Blow pleasant breezes up your own ass. Take that endless orange colored days. You are the same as the rest of the year, only uncomfortably warmer. You chronically disappoint me. You seem to slip away because you never were to begin with.