I hate it.
Worst season of the year.
This torrid affair of appearing to care that the sun has finally appeared has finally pushed me to my limits, and I don’t get it. I never did.
The unsightly sweat and the variety of stenches mixed in with apple, vanilla and musk that does a fitting job of annihilating the healthy senses, and the pathetic attempts to get comfortable on the grass. Hands behind, legs together or apart, and I’m dressed way too smart for this stupid outing.
I don’t care, I hate it here. Over here, not there, and I swear this will be the last. What a farce. Can’t wait for the madness to pass.
That Police officer confirmed this is the worst season for crime, as the mindless are committed to commit all the fucking crimes. And domestic violence rates spike like during Christmas holidays, and road rage, he says, usually ends up with someone calling an ambulance or the feds.
The pleas of those to wear open toes. Why? In an emergency I’d get nowhere fast. An ex-mugger said that makes you an easy target, or at worst, last, and the many times I’ve tripped over my own foot in one of those, destroying all my toes, and trying to look elegant-as in one of those.
The mind boggles at the umpteenth barbecue this weekend, and all the mowers are out in force again, and the DIY stores are packed to the brim, full of hopeful bodies all trying to pack as much in.
The sun’s out, so guns are out, and attitudes, too. Busy places become dangerous places, Royal Rumble-esque weird behaviour, fighting for more space. And do us a favour, would you mind moving over, and not blocking the bloody street, stood in threes. Rolled eyes, exasperated sighs, large beads of sweat, no shade, the fed up baby in the buggy looks like he’s done for the day, the heat so clearly his biggest problem here.
Everything’s louder. Louder, still. Laughs are louder and pierce the soul, people slamming doors, yells and screams seem obnoxious now. Everything’s loud. Everything’s a crowd. Those with sensitivities know now to mind out or hide out. The heat gets mad abrasive at around just after normal working hours. Don’t run from it, don’t complain, you wanted this, you cowards. Get in, get home, get off me, you’re standing way too close.
In post, this will all be but a dream. It seems. A rich vision that plays effortlessly behind my eyes, like a fucking migraine.
© PC, 2023
Broken Vase 