Bucket of shells

It's summertime in Texas!  And yeah, it's only in the low 90s, so I can actually go outside and not die, but it still makes me super happy.  I LOVE the crazy hot weather.  Summertime makes me not want to do anything, except sit beside a pool I can't really swim in, and bake blackberry cobbler, and drink margaritas.  Obviously not all at the same time.  That would be DISASTROUS for the cobbler.

I guess the "not wanting to do anything" part might be why I failed all my classes last summer.  Whoopsie.  Anyhow, I'm feeling a bit depressed and a bit stressed out and a bit lonely, and betrayed and hurt and abandoned, and that is not conducive to good super-villain behavior.  I need to feel powerful and indestructible and motherfucking shiny.  Ironically, powerful me doesn't write well.  Not that I write well no matter what, but that's beside the point.

So here's this thing I wrote a few years ago in the wintertime, that's partly about my lust for summer, and partly (shockingly enough) about a boy.  I think.  Honestly at this point I don't even remember which boy it was about, so he must have not been as important as my love affair with Texas summer.  Or money.  Or fame.  Or power.  Or caffeine.

Filmed in amazing technicolor

The sharp frigid wind whistles through trees and softly whispers, "I love you."  But the sentiment is, like always, not shared.  I'd rather have the abuse of the sun, beating down on me, pounding away at my flesh until I'm a gooey pile of sweaty muck.  The scarf choking my neck and the heater in my car are my barriers, blocking the way for that old lover in the night, the one that sneaks in my window and grazes my back with his fingernails.  My heart like a migraine expands in my chest until it's pressing so hard against the walls that I feel like I might explode, if only he would take another step to me.  But it's not possible, the night is only to be alone.  No ripping off of clothes and dancing naked in the moonlight, no passionate glances between the fog of smoke that I exhale into the ever-growing space between us, no singing with the grass.  No little spaceheater lying beside me in bed and saying beautiful things to me.  No, the cold is for the loner.  The ones that have no shoulders and hips and thighs and soft little wristbones to kiss under blankets.  If only my brilliant sun would come back, abuse and all.  If only I could feel the heat of his love, the smell of chlorine and rapidly warming beer and hot pavement and cheap plastic pool toys to save me from this freezing lover that somehow only makes me feel lukewarm.