Regardless of my good intentions summer ran me ragged again. It’s a very sneaky season, like a woman dressed to the nines claiming she’s heading to church when in truth she’s headed to a dog fight. Like pretty flowers that are carnivorous, beautiful sunshine scorching every living thing to a burnt chip, or rushing white water full of flesh eating bacteria.
Maybe I exaggerate a bit, but not much; I swear this summer was a witch.
I could pretend to myself fall is going to be better; but in sultry South Texas autumn is just a blurb on the thermometer. You only know its here when Michaels and Hobby Lobby put all the colorful plastic foliage on display in over-priced carefree arrangements meant to entice spending, while in reality, it’s more like a trail leading to a mousetrap.
If I sound bitter it is because it’s hard to snap out of summer’s cruel fugue of unrest and name calling, popsicles melting on the kitchen floor, lying politicians and creepy undertakers, (not to mention the many humiliations of a shamelessly marketed bikini season that presumes anyone over 35 is already dead.)
All my friends live anywhere but here. The only hope for meeting new people comes in abrupt snippets of rage at city hall meetings where a line is drawn down the middle of the room, separating frothing hate mongrels from sanctimonious do-gooders.
Anger, cold coffee and no doughnuts is not a proper social setting.
If it could get any worse it would. Oh yeah, that’s already happened since my family is sitting like nervous pups in the path of an oncoming hurricane.
Beat it, Harvey! Go away! We’ve had all the excitement we can take!