The Cult of Summer
I can’t stand summer. It rolls in like a grim reaper with a tan, swinging humidity and sunshine like a meat cleaver. The air turns thick, sticky - like breathing through a mold-rotted rag - and suddenly everyone’s joined a cult of sun worshippers, chanting the gospel of “good vibes” under that leering, golden stare. Warm weather isn’t a mood for me; it’s an insane asylum. Stepping into the humidity is like wading through a swamp of regret, my skin screaming in revolt. People gush about escaping winter’s chill, but my soul wilts at the first daisy’s bloom. No reverse sun lamp can trick my brain into craving crisp, overcast days - I’m trapped in this oven season, stewing in sweat-soaked dread.
The real sting is the isolation. Summer’s a sacred festival, and if you don’t buy the hype, you’re the glitch. Friends squint at me like I’m broken when I ditch their picnics or lake days, pushing “give it a chance” like an intervention ambush. As if UV rays could rewire my brain. I’m not defective - I just don’t find joy in roasting alive while forcing a grin. Your melanoma trail run is my personal hell; I’d rather barricade myself indoors, tweaking a recipe or lost in a book, the A/C purring at a glorious 62 degrees.
While you’re chasing tans, turning into leather handbags and mosquito buffets at your eerie picnic, I’ll be here, shades drawn, sipping iced coffee like it’s liquid sanity, counting down to autumn. Don’t stop inviting me - I want to hang - but pitch a dim coffee shop over a sweltering barbecue. I’d rather not bleed sweat onto my plate or fend off sunburns and bugs. Summer might be your holy season, but for me, thriving is cooler, darker, and entirely my own.
