Summertime...

A few days ago I hailed in the start of summertime with the clanking of Popsicles. Sticky orange against yellow, for what would later represent the last sun setting upon spring and rising into the long awaited summer. Oh, summer, the love of my life. If I was who I am now but rich, I would chase summer across the globe, experiencing rain as only a novelty and sun in over-abundance. If I were a freer spirit I would follow summer without money, but I am not ready for that kind of commitment. I never get tired of summer, although by the end of it I urn to go back to school, but the sun could stay. It's weird for me to hear people who get sick of warmth; especially in Washington since it never gets unbearable, unless you're older than fifty, than you have your own troubles. I love waking up at noon after who-knows-or-cares how many days straight of partying. By the second month of summer I don't even consider anything partying, just living maybe. I call them Ra shots (inside joke). The only thing I don't like too much about summer is the unprodcutiveness, but what is productivity but the curse of the lesser seasons? I don't get writers' block per se but the summer gives me a good case of the writers food poisoning, I guess. Diarrhea flows of brilliant poetry followed by sweating followed by incoherent word vomit. Or yess, yesssssss, yessssss, noooo syndrome as they call it The New Yorker. Did I say New yorker, I meant bad sex. Well, see you guys later, don't expect much good writing out of me the next month or whatever. This is my time off. Time to bake my brain in the sun and clear my mind of all the stuff I learned last year. I'll see you next year with a fading tan and a clean slate.