Dearest Fall,
It’s been a while. I didn’t miss you, don’t flatter yourself, but the beginning of every new season has a hint of excitement— it’s one of the few moments where witnessing the passage of time is unavoidably visible. The leaves die: it slowly gets cooler, and the sun creeps lower in the sky day by day.
You’re a flare in the sky of death and unhappiness. When you come around, the animals leave town and all the wisdomous and wealthy old people, like my grandparents that pay for my fancy trinkets and treats, flee to Florida. You’re the nostalgia season; everyone reminisces about a previous Fall, whether it’s for romance or bonfires with the fellas— the one that they’re currently in, in the moment, sucks.
Last year, you were very mean to me. You created and pushed me into many-a benders, all while committing violent assault on my young, freshman Blackboard grades. Your Seasonal Affective Disorder wrecked havoc upon my poor little underdeveloped brain. Well, this year, I’m doing something about it.
I’m going to rage against the dying of the summer.
I’m going to kill Fall.
What does this entail? I will not let your cold weather affect how I dress. As far as I care, it’s summer part two baby, bring on the palm trees and fruity beverages. Being a white guy, I’m already biologically predisposed to wearing shorts much longer than I need to, but I’m going to take it to the extreme— pants are out. There’s snow on the ground? Don’t care; I’m wearing three inch inseams and Birkenstocks. I turned my winter coat into a puffer vest for all the late night beach romping I’m going to do. Labor Day’s passing doesn’t mean a thing to me, because it’s summer, so I’m wearing all-white. I’m going to make the NBA draft suits of the early aughts look normal. If you live a lie with enough conviction it becomes as real as any truth.
You can’t harm grades that have already been personally harmed by no one other than myself. Tactical failing, I call it. I pushed myself against a wall so you don’t even have the opportunity. Wiggle room is at a premium, and I plan on finding it. Oh, you want me to skip class? Can’t, I’ve already used up all my personal days. If I’m going to be miserable, it’s going to be that way because of my own fruition.
Now, your main weapon is the dreaded Seasonal Affective Disorder. Do you know how miserable a season you have to be for doctors to name a disorder after you because people keep killing themselves? You have blood on your hands. Well, I’m calling my psychiatrist and we’re tripling my medication doses. I’m going to ooze serotonin out of every hole in my body. It’s going to get real silly in Athens, all in the name of spitting you, Fall.
You cannot change me, Fall. You will not change me, Fall. You will not make me frown. You will not make me buy pants. I will not fail classes because the lack of sun makes me unable to get out of bed. You are a demon, a skeleton in my closet, and I plan on tying your proverbial noose so I can focus on my biggest enemy of all— winter.
I hate you,
Matthew
Matthew Butcher is a sophomore studying English at Ohio University. Please note that the views and opinions of the columnists do not reflect those of The Post. Want to talk more about it? Let Matthew know by tweeting him @mattpbutcher.
