I’m locking all my coats, shells, windbreakers and sweaters in a large metal container until October.
I’m languishing in my little cubby hole of a bedroom sweating into my sheets and loving every second of it. It’s hot out there, bitches.
I saw legs yesterday. Thousands of emancipated legs on untanned girls singing devotionals about being delivered from their months long servitude under denim masters. Knees, too. So many knees.
If I never see a turtleneck again it’ll be too soon.
There’s nowhere to hide that embarrassing rash anymore, summer’s here my slightly scaly friend, get some ointment. It’s time to revel in back sweat and hair that doesn’t do what it’s supposed to. It’s time to drink outside not because you got thrown out of your house for mentioning out loud how you’d like to dust off Barbara Walters’ cobwebs in front of your wife, but because you want to.
It’s time to make fuck outside.
You heard me. Get on that my friends. Ring in June with a little game of roof top muff bop. Welcome summer like an old friend. An old friend with a vagina.