I Hate Summer

We are on the lip of September. August has passed rapidly once again, predictably, dying with the moths buzzing around its flickering yellow bulb while the commentators and pundits cite their same old contradictory whines: Why do schools go back so early now? It used to be after Labor Day. That’s on one side, while on another: Summer’s just a relic of an agricultural economy. (Smartypants!) Now it’s why American students don’t know anything.

On the one hand: Wistful overworked professionals appealing to, yes, France, and its month-long vacations. “Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee / With a shower of rain, we stopped in the colonnade / And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten / And drank coffee, and talked for an hour…”

On the other: Angry overworked professionals carping about not being able to get anyone in New York or on Capitol Hill on the phone.

Texans, meanwhile, are happy to remind us that summer is not over down there until the start of November.

As far as I am concerned, begone with it all. Shut yer trap. I have realized, with the zeal of an unexpected convert, that I despise summer, anyway.

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