Wednesday, June 4, 2014

summer is the worst.

if the hotdog-scented thigh meat wafting up from the sun-dappled sidewalks of my fair city are any indication, SUMMERTIME IS FINALLY UPON US. i hate the fucking summer, man. everyone is naked, everyone stinks, and everyone is outside and underfoot no matter the time of day or night, sticky and dripping barbecue sauce or helado mindlessly down their fronts. no bullshit, this winter was really hard for me. and as much as i love piling into bed buoyed by a cloud of pillows and snuggled under a fresh duvet with a stack of books, that polar vortex was NOT PLAYING, BITCH. it wasn't even fun to look out the window from the suffocating warmth of my free radiator-heated apartment; fucking stalagtites tearing up my expensive-ass north face boots. i needed ski poles just to walk to the motherfucking train. arghhhh.

so it's hot out! and everyone is happy again!! because all of our seasonal affective disorder melted away like so many piss-soaked mountains of garbage snow!!! EXCEPT I'M STILL SAD THO. some bitch on rollerblades knocked the reusable shopping bag my white friends guilted me into using out of my hands as i was leaving the market last week and i almost left my seasonal fruits and fresh-picked herbs and other summertime foods (read: expired canned spaghetti-Os and sugary orange soda) right there on the goddamned sidewalk. she spun around breezily to where i crouched over my $7 dinner, shrugging her shoulders as if to say, "lighten up, my pal! it's summer!" as i knelt in a puddle of shamesweat collecting each pistachio as it hurtled rapidly toward the street. "IT'S NOT 1996, YOU ASSHOLE!" i shouted after her ironical kneepads. all i fucking long for is to go back to the simpler days when a bitch screaming down my sidewalk on rollerskates would knock loose every single one of her stupid teeth after hitting a patch of black ice as i looked on, aghast under my eight layers of clothing, anxious to get back inside without fear of castigation from all the "it's too nice to be indoors" crowd. FUCK I HATE HAPPY PEOPLE AND NICE WEATHER.

but this year, instead of murdering innocents like i want to, i’m (maybe) going to try:

1 eating on a goddamn patio. YOU LOVE IT. the smell of exhaust wafting through the surrounding air, the feeling of disease-carrying insects sinking their tiny stingers into your tender flesh and laying microscopic eggs in your hair, the prying eyes of the homeless asking if you’re going to finish that last bite of your $30 arugula salad: grass stains and flip flops and boob sweat, OH MY. i don't understand having the option to eat indoors yet choosing to eat where people could just spit on you or touch your plate with their feces-covered fingers. i am not a shrub, my leaves to not require sunshine for food, they get plenty full on hot cheetos and little debbies. i will give you nerds three less-hot summer days to pick bugs out of my tacos on the big star patio for no more than three hours each time, then we're spending the rest of the summer in the dark at au cheval. fuck fresh air.

2 attending a street festival. nope, i can't. BUT i will try not to roll my eyes too hard when you tell me about the one you're going to. the only better than being repeatedly jabbed in the back of the knees by bugaboo strollers while inching through a mob of sweaty bodies pretending to be interested in artisan crafts while trying to eat a corn on the cob is being repeatedly jabbed in the back of the knees by bugaboo strollers while inching through a mob of sweaty bodies pretending to be interested in artisan crafts while trying to eat a corn on the cob when it's a hundred motherfucking degrees out. WHAT IS THE APPEAL IN THIS. i'm asking for real. what, you hate grilling your own corn? you're really about to hang that amateur watercolor/wear that beaded necklace/put a plant in that lopsided homemade vase? or is drunk dancing in a garbage-strewn street two blocks from your house to the sounds of your uncle's tribute band dread zeppelin or the food fighters as they butcher the most beloved songs of your adolescence really your goddamned jam!? ugh, why. the chances you're going to run into some wingding you hate at your neighborhood carnival are exponentially higher than they are just sitting alone in your apartment watching family feud, especially if you live in the same town in which you attended high school. trust me, bro. I'VE HAD THAT CONVERSATION. bitches with exotic husbands and imaginary jobs pretending to be interested in the mundanity of my having to schedule dental appointments for our 11th grade teacher's dog. that's all these festivals and shit are, breeding grounds for unwanted reunions. THAT IS WHAT I HAVE FACEBOOK FOR. i remember running into this asshole one summer at the custer fair the year after we graduated and watching his eyes widen in disbelief as i explained, "yeah, dude, i really am just selling doughnuts and taking quaaludes with your little brother all day." and i really was. what a shithead.

3 watching an outdoor show. as much as i love watching teenage boys drenched in sweat and marinating in their own piss gyrating awkwardly to this year’s version of grizzly bear on a 137 degree day, NO THANK YOU PITCHFORK. and i’m totally cool pushing these cheeks up on the bulge in your dad’s pleated dockers shorts as we sway offbeat to the muffled strains of an inch tall r. kelly making their way to the edges of grant park (even though we slept outside overnight and paid $9,537,620 for VIP passes), BUT MAYBE NEXT TIME LOLLA. when are we all going to admit that standing tiptoe in dogshit clutching a seventeen dollar beer watching your favorite band in the rain > lying in a dark, air-conditioned room listening to your favorite band while eating chips. you can't hear shit! and, unless you're getting your ribs crushed by the mosh pit at the front of the stage, you can't really see shit! i bought tickets to that mos def show he couldn't get into the country to put on a few weeks ago, and for the first time of many i paid crazy extra for a comfortable chair and an unobstructed sight line. and yes, i was planning to bring my own ottoman. MY ANKLES ARE SWOLLEN AS FUCK IN THIS HEAT.

4 buying plants and not killing them. last friday night i called up your mom and was like, "LET'S PARTY, KAREN" and she and i put on our orthofeet and piled into the dodge grand caravan she used to drive you to karate lessons in and took our sexy asses to home depot. ever since you stopped breaking her heart with your disappointing life choices that bitch has gotten a new lease on life: renovating the breakfast nook, hosting a wine and book club, having an tawdry affair with the young man your dad hired to tend to the yardwork now that his back is ruined from years of hard labor. AND I LOVE HER FOR IT. i bought $75 dollars' worth of succulents that are supposed to be impossible to kill and a hammer in case someone breaks into my crib. i will report on the progress in a few months. i already spilled half the dirt out of one of them. the future looks bleak.

5 participate in some lauded “lakefront” activity. everyone here is always talking about the goddamned lake like it’s not a freezing cold grey diarrhea soup and i’m baffled by that. it’s too cold to go into ten months out of the year and the other two it’s so full of e.coli you can’t dip a toe in it without puking your fucking guts out. the last time i went to the beach i was ten years old. i stood at the edge of the water on a sweltering ninety degree day, one of my father's disintegrating old t-shirts covering my sensible bathing suit to my knees; i stared out at sailboats in the distance as cool water lapped over my toes, the sand soft and slippery beneath my feet. AND THEN I FUCKING LOOKED DOWN. a cluster of tiny yellow bugs skittered across my tiny feet and a dead fish floated ominously by, followed by a soiled diaper packed with human waste and soaked in sludgy lake water and dead smelt runoff or whatever. i have not returned since.

6 cooking and eating fresh summer foods. i cleaned my oven last week. like, really really cleaned it. i sprayed some toxic aerosol shit inside it before i went to the disco, and then when i got home i cut myself out of my party dress and used it to wipe all of the lean cuisine drippings that have collected in a sticky, low-calorie puddle stuck to the bottom of my tiny apartment oven. now i don't want to fucking use it. like, ever again. as much as i would like to make herbed summer squash and peach pie and gazpacho, the only thing i can be bothered to do in my hot ass kitchen is fill the magic bullet with juice and frozen mixed berries and drink it until my shit turns blue. all of that asparagus is terribly exciting standing at attention in the stalls manned by my favorite bearded urban farmers but nah, fam. it's motherfucking hot. the crock pot and i will see you in november. meanwhile, i'ma post up in the air conditioning at chili's with some southwestern eggrolls and a watermelon margarita. THE TANS MIGHT FADE BUT THE MEMORIES WILL LAST FOREVER.