Look, I’m not going to defend fall. Fall doesn’t need defending. Fall might produce a birth certificate if really put upon, but we all know who’s looking foolish in the exchange. Instead, let me simply suggest that my colleague Jia, whom I respect and admire, is the wrongest motherfucker living, and summer is the season that is garbage.
Summer is hell. Summer is swamp-crotch and insects and exploding roadkill. The kids are home from school, and in public at unreasonable times to have to deal with children, and that’s hell, too. Stewing in your own juices on a train platform or patio or your sheets because you can’t sleep with the AC but the sun rises five feet from your windows from late June on through August—that, especially, is hell. Our bodies are beautiful, yes, and yet everything that comes OUT of our bodies is bad fucking news. And here you are, covered in it—a few degrees removed from having pissed yourself, really, except through your whole body, out of every pore, and usually in your eyes, too. Summer is no good.
Further: If your tender poet’s soul really quivers with the dread of fall’s eventual turn to winter, I don’t know, man, but it sounds like you’re fucking it wrong. Shit dies. And before that, it’s dope for a while, and its clothes fit right, and it maybe wears that merino-blend top for the two fucking months it’s seasonal if that isn’t too much to ask, motherfucker. And again, if not being able to irrigate a hydroponic tomato farm from the yield of your undercarriage is a metaphor for some impending blight of nature’s bounty, that’s just fucking fine.
Spring is not real, and winter is slushed corners and doom.
Anyway, that is just this reporter’s opinion. Deadspin also conducted an internal poll, using our typical methodology designed to ensure that no one is at all satisfied with the results, except to the point it demonstrates our disapproval of Jia.
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