I hate summer. I don’t do heat well at all, especially when it’s humid. I feel like old wilted lettuce. It’s hard to think or write or do anything, really. These past couple weeks I’ve been living in my car, it seems, with the A/C runing full-blast. I have to jump in the shower fully clothed before I go to bed, then sleep in front of a fan. It’s usually this way until the very tippy end of October, and then I’m dissapointed because the rest of the seasons aren’t as rainy as I want them to be.
I can see myself in the above scene in a sarong, sipping mai-tais and other rocket-fuel concotions cleverly disguised with fruit and tiny paper umbrellas. Every so often I’d venture out from under my pretty yellow parasol to stroll along the white sand and splash the azure water with a French-manicured toe. Only it should be raining. Thunder would be nice. A light wind wouldn’t be amiss, either. The resort staff can worry about the puddles and wet sand I track in.