Dear Atlantan Season of Summer,
First, I would like to say welcome. Your official start date isn't until June 21st but here you are, more than a month early. I like your work ethic and your moxy. Don't let human-created dates hold you back; a task is at hand and you are the abstract conceptual entity for the job. I commend you.
But what exactly is that task? We'll start with some positives.
One, I would rather be warm then cold and you bring the heat, my friend.
Two, you usher in the month of my birth. July (7th for interested parties) is special to me and I always hold a place in my heart for the warmest of months. Not only am I celebrated but I also get lots of presents. Even if I hated the hot I would still love the summer by positive reinforcement.
Three, you're a good excuse to eat ice cream all the time.
But let's cut to the chase: you're out to kill me, aren't you? You know I walk everywhere and that the nearest train stations are at least twenty minutes away. Why do you have to turn up the heat? Not only am I at the threat of heat exhaustion/stroke, I am also at risk for horrible bacne, one of the most dreaded of acnes, from sweating into my shirt and trapping it between my back and backpack. Zits on my back! How am I going to Oxy those? Ask for assistance? Gross, dude!
Sweat just pours off my dark head of hair and onto my headphones, inevitably in my ears. It's like an infection waiting to happen. I constantly look a mess (from the sweat) so I have to bring a dopp kit of toiletries, as well as a change of clothes, everywhere I go so I can look like a halfway normal person when I arrive somewhere. My ice-cold water bottle turns warm in minutes, I get stinky, wet socks, and horrible, horrible farmer's tan! Even my tan-well, near-never-burn skin is turned against me!
Spring is so nice to us and you cut it off, Summer. It's like you're a little over-anxious and somewhat high-strung, possibly a bit of a Seasonal Stage hog. And then when you start to perform you overdo it: the blistering heat, the choking humidity and what feels like an unfiltered sun bouncing off the white sidewalks and burning my eyes. What is with the punishment? I know I'm supposed to live in Hotlanta and people tell me, "You've lived here for, like, 12 years. Aren't you used to this by now?" But would it be so hard for us to be just "Mild-yet-Comfortablanta" for a summer? Are you over-compensating?
In summation, Summer -- I always look forward to you in the Winter, begging for you to come. But when you get here I start to realize what I really wanted was Spring or even Autumn. Just, please, cut me a break here, ASS.