The Death of Summer

I can feel my summer dying. It's this tiny little shrunken thing, curled up in a corner of my front patio, licking desert dirt in a futile effort to get some form of sustenance. I once tried watering it, but I got bored watching my dying summer roll around nakedly in the rapidly evaporating puddle of precious liquid that I pored onto the hot concrete.

Aside: Why the hell is my mother's cell phone beeping? IT'S ANNOYING.

It's rather disturbing, watching a summer die. It's sort of like watching your dreams go up in flames, or your favorite character in a book die, or watching practically anything on VH1. It's an ugly, uncomfortable, itchy, and inconvenient experience, and I'm sad to say that practically everyone has experienced a summer die.

But you know, I think I'd much rather watch a summer die than not have a summer at all. I mean, what the hell does summer mean to adults with jobs in the summer? It probably just plain sucks, but whatever.

Point is, my summer is dying, I'm watching it die, it's rather disturbing and I really sorta wish someone would come and give it CPR or prick it with an IV or give it open heart/brain surgery since I'm in no way qualified to do any of those things - I'm afraid I might only make things worse.

STILL. Ricardo Arjona on the 28th. WHOOP DA WHOOP! Nice way to finish off a rather uneventful summer, wouldn't you say?