Go away. No, for real, get your damn ass out of my autumn. I'm sick and tired of your hot days, and I am wicked bored with your warm nights.
It's November.
For fuck's sake, Summer, go home. Go south. Go to Hawaii. Go to Peru. Go to Hell. Just GET OUT. Be gone.
After spending Saturday packing up and storing the air conditioners, then cleaning and storing away the kayaks, I am in no damn mood for another day in the 70's, but here you go again with your stupid shit. Windows up, windows down; heat on; heat off. Seriously. Make up your damn mind.
It's snowing in the Pacific Northwest. At least someone somewhere knows what the hell season it is, what month it is, that this isn't the Deep South nor Florida nor Arizona. Wake up, November. Wake up.Oh, don't be telling me to be careful what I wish for. I shoveled that damn 110 inches of snow a few years ago. I'm not afraid of snow. Do you think my grown-up ass would sit around New England if I didn't like snow?
I love summer, too, and I get very antsy in the pantsy if summer arrives late. But, let's be serious here. 70 degrees predicted on November 6th? What the holy hell. Are you high, Summer? Are you still buzzed from your own season?
Look, I love you, Summer; I love you like a visiting relative. Now, though, it's time to pack up your toothbrush and go home. Go where you belong, Summer, which isn't here.
I know, I know. When my skin cracks and my face freezes off and my ears are so cold I cry -- you'll be laughing at me from the Southern Hemisphere. When the Reynaud's in my fingers and toes threatens to cause amputation, I'll be begging to have you back.
Right now, though, I want my flannel sheets, my long sleeves, my sweaters, and my sweatpants. I want hiking boots and knit hats. I want hot chocolate and soup and chowder and beef stew in the crock pot. I want spiced mulled wine and turkey and crackling fires.
Go away, Summer. Go away and don't come back until May. You can show yourself a tiny bit over the next few months, but pack your bags and go live somewhere else for a while. I need a break. My sweat glands need a break. It has been real, and it has been fun, but right now -- it's not real fun.I love you, Summer, but, for the love of all things sane ... GO ... AWAY ... for a few months.
Sincerely,
Me and my flannel sheets and my big fluffy slippers and my fleece jackets and my furry hiking boots and my snowshoes and my knit scarves and my wool socks and my flannel pajama pants and my handmade quilts ...
