Summer Is The Worst

Anyone who knows me, even a little bit, knows that I hate the summer. It’s three months of uncomfortable weather, uncomfortable clothes, difficulty sleeping and never being properly dry. It’s miserable. But that’s not really what I want to talk about. It’s too obvious. What I want to talk about is how weird it is that I seem to be in the minority in this opinion.

I just don’t understand it. Everyone acts like they just love the summer. A huge number of people live in the South, on purpose. Some of them are even from the North, but choose to leave their families to spend their lives in awfulness. I can’t wrap my head around it at all.

But that’s not the worst part. I’m fine with a live and let live philosophy. I don’t really care that people claim to like the hot weather. What bugs me is the way people act like there’s something wrong with me for not liking it. It’s like summer-loving is the default and there’s something strange about anyone who’s different.

It’s common for people to try to convince me that I’m wrong about summer. They try telling me about all of the great summer things like the beach (which I hate) and the sun (as if the sun doesn’t exist in Spring, Fall and Winter). I’ve even had people explain to me that humans developed on the African savannah where it’s hot, so we’re biologically programmed to like the summer. I usually respond with a bit about individuality and freedom, which is never appreciated.

The summer is just something I have to get through every year. I wish people would let me get through it in peace. I may complain a little, but I won’t do anything to jeopardize other people’s enjoyment. I just have to hold out until October or November when the weather starts to get really nice again.

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