I am a vampire. Not really, but I have very fair skin, and I don’t like being out in the sun very long. If I were a vampire, I would not be a daywalker. I would not be Blade. I would be the ones in Blade II that have jaws like the predator but wear jeans and hoodies.
The sun makes me tired, and also burnt. I love the beauty of a sunny day, but if forced to choose between 95 degrees and sunny all day, every day, for the rest of my life; or 10 degrees with snow, I would choose 10 degrees with snow. Do I like 10-degree weather with snow? No, I do not. But I hate it less than 95 and sunny.
It’s been in the 90s in Philly for a million years now, which is why I’m complaining about it. We’ve had some pretty whack T-storms here and there, which busts up the humidity and cools things off for a while, and are also just really cool, so that’s been nice. But dear reader, I really do not like summer.
I liked it as a child because I didn’t have to go to school. Now I have no summer break. I also live in a place that, on average, is 10 degrees warmer than where I grew up. That’s great in the winter, but not so much right now.
The sun actually gives me a rash. In addition to burning me, it rashes me. It makes me tired. It makes me irritable.
I know it makes things grow, and it’s pretty, and we’d all die without it. Don’t get technical on me, here. I’ve gone through it all in my head as I write this, how I’m probably cursing us with my careless words, dooming the planet to an eternal winter because some magical but cruel being is listening. I’ve read a lot of fairy tales. I have OCD. I know how this works.
“But Beck,” you say. “What in the Kentucky fried fuck does this have to do with writing?”
Not a damn thing; thanks for asking.