I Hate Summer

i have a very physically visceral reaction to warming weather. i sweat, obviously. i also get a strong compulsion to slit my thighs.

summer betrays the fact that i am a hibernator year round. in the winter, everyone moves slowly, crosses their arms walking against the wind to keep their coats shut hearts protected. in the summer i am still shut, impuissant, while everyone else is sunny. the trees are petaled pink & white, people are expeditiously approaching nudity, and i am still in baggy black cloaks. i am slow. i am languid.

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i dream of lying on a crisp white bed by an open window in europe. it’s breezy.

sheer white lacy curtains billow towards my lazy body: sprawled, legs contorted comfortably. there is a spritz on the wooden nightstand and other sweet bubbly drinks in a fridge somewhere accessible. if i stretch my arms out from this prostrate position i can even reach the striped green straw. if i sit up, i can sip my orange aperitif. it’s a little humid, but nice by 97% of human standards. i am still in winter.

i miss winter, i miss it dearly, i miss the hot chocolate i never drink because i can’t justify the calories, i don’t like liquid cocoa that much, id rather just eat a bar of chocolate, but it doesn’t matter i love the idea of drinking hot chocolate, of making it on a stovetop with nutella and whole milk, of tearing open a swiss miss packet, of using the tinned starbucks mix mom bought from costco like 6 years ago and somehow isn’t expired, and you can’t fuckin make hot chocolate when there’s a high of 78f. when the wind is strong and blows pollen into your colored-contact-wearing chronically dry eyes, when the raised American flag billows north and reminds you that patriotic holidays involving heat and hot dogs are nearing inevitably, you cannot drink hot fucking chocolate. you instead are expected to envisage vanilla soft serve dipped in rainbow sprinkles on the dry boardwalk, or l'heure de l'apéros in france, and you do, its all you can do. it’s beginning to smell like the sea. the ice cream vision looms. i smell seared sausages and memorial day. buy sunscreen now. I’m gonna slit my thighs like it’s barbecue.