I dehydrate easily.
The ice cream man song makes
me want to turn into a contagion.
'It's pretty outside,' they say. 'Get outside
for a while.'
Which is just code for, 'I hope you get
skin cancer and nobody comes to your funeral.'
Every day of summer is the perfect day
to stay inside and read the newspaper.
I mean, I guess the beach is okay. Even though it's
really made of, like, billions of flakes of cigarette
ash, filth, and the skin cells shed by the
sweating, molting masses of literally baking humans.
Fresh cut grass smells nice, sure.
But have you ever heard the wailing of the blades as they experience their weekly holocaust?
What really gets me is that it's the lightest season. Book and movies and TV are their most sensational. Romances are fleeting. It is our adolescent act, our hedonistic phase before the return to the drudgery of school and work, the return to the business of living and dying.
The smell of a drunk's piss burning in an alleyway wafting directly into your nostrils as you walk to brunch with your grandma.
I am the Curmudgeon of Summer.
I will drink your AC.
I will drink it up.