Dear Summer,

It sounds like I’m writing to a 90s queen bee bitchy movie character — you wish. You wish you were as bubbly, popular, and blonde as Summer. But instead, you’re the ugly, sweaty sidekick who is so full of resentment and bitterness toward your popular, well-liked bestie that everyone thinks you’re an asshole. And you are.

You’re a massive asshole. You ruin everything for everyone. Once upon a time, when we were younger and not in the workforce, you were what we looked forward to most: summer break, summer camp, summer love, summer everything. But now? You offer nothing besides “summer Fridays,” the occasional mid-week happy hour for a glass of freezing cold rosé and, only if you’re really lucky, getting to wear shorts to work (which doesn’t even count since every office across America is an igloo from May-August and any feeble attempt at a summer lewk is almost always covered up by your standard desk blanket).

I think I speak for everyone when I ask

WHO DO YOU THINK ARE?

WHAT GIVES YOU THE RIGHT?

WHY ARE YOU THE WAY THAT YOU ARE?

You’re just a dick. Your unrelenting temperatures make being outside quite literally unbearable. It takes about a half hour to even build up the courage to brave your heat, and that bravery is usually only good for a 5-minute errand before you can’t take it anymore. You’re such an asshole that climbing in and out of the car — something we’ve been doing since we could walk — is debilitating. At your peak, walking from the car to Walgreens and back to the car might as well be a fucking triathlon for the amount of energy we must exert to simply pick up our anti-depressants and a new nail color.

And don’t even get me started on “summer love.” You ruined that for us once we graduated college. Once surrounded by horny, drunk peers, we were thrust into the real world with slim, sweaty, smelly pickings. Not only is it next to impossible to meet a potential summer lover by the pool (WHOSE POOL? NO ONE EVER HAS A POOL), but our summer appearance does nothing for our game. A slowed down metabolism met with “97º BUT FEELS LIKE 108º” heat mixed with adult hormones = bloat. Loose skin. Sweat. Microscopic facial hairs that look unkept when the summer light hits them just right. Smells, so many smells. How the hell is anyone supposed to feel sexy when they have sweat beads rolling tormentingly slow down their backs, their hair is plastered to their neck, and they’re sporting sweat stains directly below their tits? Summer love my ass. No one wants to get near this in the dead heat of summer, trust. And, if they do, the moment’s ruined anyway by hurrying inside and asking them to wait just a minute while you use half a bottle of perfume, deodorant, and body wipes to make the act of touching you digestible. For as long as I can remember, men have thought it was my way of being sexy to run inside, do all that, and have them find me in bed more or less naked and ready to party. But no. It wasn’t to be sexy at all — it was an attempt to not smell and feel like the floor of a public pool’s restroom with an uncovered trash can overflowing right outside the entrance. The fact that these actions rendered me naked was happenstance.

You suck, summer. You really do. You make everything 10x harder than it has to be just by existing. If I wanted to feel like I was walking around in a sauna all day, well — I wouldn’t. I would never want that because it’s literally an insane thing to want, which means that you in your very nature are insane. At the beginning, you’re fine. Bearable at best. But by August, I can’t stand you. I want nothing to do with you. I’d rather stay in my dark, cool house all month, racking up a $200 electric bill, having everything from food to tampons delivered to my door than have to bear dealing with you for even an hour. I’ve exhausted all my summer clothes, too. Sure, during the week at work I can get away with dressing like it’s a cool, mid-October afternoon, but on the weekends, I am down to one pair of shorts, a jean skirt, 2 bodysuits, and 2 white t-shirts. That’s it. That’s all I’ll agree to dressing in anymore. So, on top of the sweat and smell and general unattractiveness, I’m now a serial outfit repeater with seemingly nothing unique or creative to offer.

COOL.

Summer, you suck.