Friday, January 27, 2012

An Open Letter to Summer


Dear Summer,

I don't even go to the bathroom any more, I easily drink four litres of water a day and to expel it, all I need is to sit around in this bloody heat. At this point my armpits could sustain a third world country. This is ridiculous.

I get it. You're hot. I got the memo. But well over two weeks in the 30°s and 40°s is just overkill. I'm a simple man; I don't own anything as fancy as air conditioning and my only relief is the twelve dollar fans that only serve to move the hot air around. Surely you understand what this is doing to me?

My job is not suited to heat, I spend 6 or more hours at a time running around, working up a sweat in thick aprons and a wife beater under my work shirt just to soak up the sweat of a days work in sub-par air conditioning that I've long since stopped feeling. Standing under the food lights waiting for direction is like standing around a warm fire in 40° weather.

This kind of heat makes you forget what it is to feel, where the air starts and your skin begins is now a mystery. It's rotting my brain. I can't even remember what life used to be like, when sleeping on my bed was preferred than camping it out with my cats on the cold linoleum floor in the kitchen. Or when hanging out the washing wasn't equal to an hour in a tanning salon.

Why me? There are pale people in Ireland begging for you, the less fortunate plants of norway or some other cold country in need of your rays. At what point did you decide "Gee, I should go to Australia" ?. It's not even that nice a place, between deserts and expensive housing it's a god damn boring place to be. Famous people don't even come to the western half.

So please. I'm begging you. Just go away.

Fuck you,
Casey

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