Against all reason and fairness and good sense, it’s August now. July is impossible, and more impossible when it’s over. I love summer, or maybe I hate it. I can’t figure out which one, and I can’t figure out how to live within it. What I love about it isn’t just an idea; it’s the wet-hearted reality of it, the permissive green days, even the humidity that settles down on the air like a blanket, making everyone’s skin feel more like skin than usual, making our bodies heavy and unavoidable. These are the same reasons I hate it, too, the same reasons that by the time July is over, the whole thing has become unbearable, a bad joke.
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