I Am A Walking Fall Cliché
Christ, dude, strip my lungs raw and bread ’em with pumpkin crumbs.
I can’t help it: every time fall rolls back around, I can only speak in clichés. I swallow that first October air and I’m all like, “Christ, dude, strip my lungs raw and bread ‘em with pumpkin crumbs, next time give me a heads up before you serve me up a breeze so cleansed it absolves me of twenty-three summers worth of sins.”
I know everyone says it every year, but fuck it, I’ll say it again: it’s heat retention season. I’m talking total upper body encasement. Just dip my entire torso in sheep fibers, you know? It’s like that song by The Neighbourhood, “Female Robbery,” because this female’s about to rob every single Nordstrom’s Rack rack of its quarter-zip knits.
I admit it: I’m that white girl who orders that drink at Starbucks. I used to order it in a tiny mouse voice because I was embarrassed to be a walking cliché, but that was the elder me. These days, I’m all gumption when I order one spicy, spicy latte; here, take my little keychain Sriracha and just squirt it all up in there, get buck wild with it.
My Instagram in the fall = basic. I just can’t help but post a million photos of myself garbed in camo holding up dead pheasants, with predictable captions like “leaves aren’t the only things that die in…
