There’s nothing as good as more summer. More heat, more daylight, more beach, more bikini pics, more leo season, more finding a place to sit outside and sip an ice-cold rosé from a chilled glass. Fall is harried, intense, serious — too much to do, too many people to see; school resumes, and the year restarts. Spring is a refresh, a reset, all those early pressures of some new beginnings. Winter — she will simply not be spoken of in my home! Summer is lackadaisical, slow, deliberate: there are days with so much to do, and days to not do anything — days that you let happen to you, devoutly and intentionally. No other season unfurls before you, endlessly, emptily: I love the last days of May, the first days of June, because there is nothing very important to do, just so much summer ahead of us.
Around my birthday (August 9th), I start to feel an intense malaise coming on — the…
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