Hot Boy Summer isn’t a rallying cry, it’s a plea for mercy. Hating on summer isn’t a take for the sake of being a contrarian, summer sucks. If I have seasonal depression, it’s not the season where I’m watching football with no one to tell me to get out of the house to get some sunlight.
Comfort wise it isn’t even close. They literally call summer the dog days, and boy do I breathe like one during those months. Filling your lungs with a crisp winter air though? It’s God’s natural vapes. You can always put more layers on, there’s only so many you can take off.
A guy wearing an open button up with no shirt underneath and sunglasses on has most punchable face in the world. For me, picking out something to wear in the summer is worse than Sophie’s Choice. In the winter I can wear a fresh beanie and a jacket to cover my fat to compete. In the summer, the only way I can somewhat trick people into thinking that I’m not THAT overweight is to wear dark black clothes. The color that will attract the most heat.
Pain is beauty. Time to pack myself in like a sardine at some stupid Tiki Bar. The worst kind of bar. You don’t meet anyone new at a Tiki Bar? You spend your entire time tactically playing a game of Risk where you and your friends slowly take over a chunk of a bar where you can get a drink without waiting forty minutes trying to get your next round. People bumping into you the whole time. Yours and their arm sweat sliding against each other as they pass.
All to get too drunk. It’s scientifically proven somehow that you get more drunk in the sun. It’s probably because you’re replacing all the water you sweat out with booze. Every time I go to the bar for another round I wear a look on my face that says “please don’t serve me.” They never listen. The odds of making a bad decision in the summer is tenfold. Tis the season for making an ass out of yourself. The sun, decor, and outfits play tricks on your brain to make you think that you’re James Bond. When at best you’re James Corden.
But what’s the alternative? I sit in my house and fight a two front war on shame? First I have to fend off my mother who won’t stop opening my shades “to let the sun in,” the exact same sun that I’m trying to escape from. That’s her first hint. Then it’s “Oh what’re all your friends doing?” and “Aren’t you sick of watching TV?” No, I’m not. I’m not sick of air conditioning either. Sometimes I think she recruits my friends because they’re my next biggest obstacle. Inviting me to do things? How dare they. I hate more than anything feeling obligated to do things for the sake of doing things. God forbid I don’t answer and they start sending me Snapchats. That only makes me more mad because they put on a good front of having fun. It’s like seafood for me, I see my friends enjoying it and I know I should like to too, but I just don’t.
I want football, and Christmas, and Buffalo wings, and cold hangovers. I love to brood when I drink. Do you know how hard it is to brood in the summer? Throws me out of my element. So I tough it out during these months. I cross off my calendar counting down the days until winter. The season where the rest of the world is just as miserable as I am. Because when we’re on an even playing field, that’s where I fucking thrive.
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