Hey Summer. F@%* you.
In this post, I do my best impression of Lewis Black, because I’m angry and say f@%* a lot. I f@%*ing hate summer. I hate stepping out of my house and sweating immediately. I’m tired of watering a tomato plant steps from my front door and confronting Jurassic Park in my yard. For the record, natural mosquito repellants don’t f@%*ing work. Your options are to either slather yourself in DEET and go Silent Spring or wear a f@%*ing burqa to water the garden. Even my beloved Huntley Meadows is crawling with large bugs and snakes and loud kids dumped off at summer camp because their parents don’t want to deal with them all day. I can’t blame them. If I had a kid that loud and obnoxious, I’d dump them off at camp, too. I exercise at dawn because that’s the only time it’s not miserably hot and humid, and I still wilt in the sun and have a shorts/socks tan that you could see from space. I get a rash from sweat, sunblock, sun, general hatred of the season, or all of the above. And si