image courtesy of the author.

The rain.

Besties 4 eva.

Most people are shocked when I tell them I love Winter. I become an instant freak, an aberration, a fucking traitor.

I think of a million comebacks: it’s cozy, it’s enveloping, it’s dramatic, it’s inspiring.

No one seems to care. The rain is not summer. It is not the sun. It is not the harbinger of all things good and great. I’m still not sure what it is people love about the sun. I feel as though I’m dying a slow death in the sun’s rays. It’s a slow killer. It makes people feel as if they need to do something. It’s a an anxiety nightmare. Everyone buzzing about at light speed, above the norm. Everyone is partying, everyone has some sort of agenda. It’s lame.

The sun makes us stupid.

The rain, the snow, the cold: it makes us intimate. We are alive in the face of ice. In the face of survival. The sun makes everyone feel so self important that they begin some hedonistic journey each day above 80 degrees. The colder temperatures have us seek meaning in the most intimate of places. We hunker down with those we trust, with friends, with family. We divulge secrets.

Summer is not for secrets.
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