You know what? I’m positively sick to death of all this sunshine.
I’m plain old tired of going out for margaritas after work.
If I have to say “On the rocks with salt, please,” one more time, I think I’ll die.
No, I do not want to sit outside and enjoy a “beautiful” sunset at Boat Basin. And sunrises, psshhh, they ugly!
I do not want to sit on the sunny lawn at Gramercy Park and suffer sucking down a Shake from the Shack.
I would not like a burger and fries alongside an ice cold Corona at The Frying Pan.
No thank you Stuy Town Park and your fountain-spritzing-breezearrificness.
No, no, no sun! I’m sick of you making me go outside and face your death-grip-like rays!
I hate you!
I hate you for turning my skin a golden bronze.
I hate you for making my face freckley like I was ten years old.
I hate you for giving my hair blonde highlights.
I hate you for forcing me to walk around in dresses all the time. I miss sweaters and jackets and boots!
I hate you for strong-arming me into donning my Wayfarers. And Aviators. Incessantly.
I hate you for making me swim in pools and lakes and oceans, gross! It’s not OK, you hear?
I hate you stupid sun and all your stupid shining! Just go away! Goddamn you, why you gotta be ruining my summer?!?!
(Here’s hoping reverse psychology works on that gaseous glowing planet know as the sun. And of course, its grey cloud cronies. Assholes.)