It is not summer.

I repeat: It is not summer. It's winter, to be exact. All of a sudden, I live in Seattle and can't escape the miserable cold rain. But this isn't what bothers me; no, its the imbeciles in t-shirts and running shorts who disturb me. It's Texas. We get eight months out of the year to wear shorts and t-shirts. And even then, that's too much clothing. It's a little thing, really, but it just reminds me how much I've outgrown this city. I delight in vintage clothes and fresh books, steaming cups of coffee under rain-drenched awnings.
Lack of sun doesn't depress me - heat and eternal sunshine do. This isn't to say I hate the sun, but I do detest the Texas sun, that dessicating source of such malaise that transforms all the green into dead, beige husks of fields. I hate the death that the sun brings, how everything withers, how impossible it is to go out in it. It's just as isolating as the extreme cold. I feel like a bug in a bell jar.
It's not just the weather. The false sense of optimism and pseudo-intellectuals in this place shed light on how jaded and at the same time, realistic I have become. I want to be somewhere new. Out of this naive college town.

"Death is: dwelling on the past and staying in one place too long." - Mrs. Flax


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