I Hate You August
August is the neglected hormonal teenager of the summer months. It doesn’t receive the love that America heaps upon July, nor is it embraced with sun-kissed arms like June. As any rebellious teenager is then wrought to do, August cries for attention, repeating the same insubordinate actions that its sibling months already tried (UV Rays, Humid, Hot, HOT, FUCKING KILL ME NOW HOT). Initially, these disorderly conducts are met with regimented enthusiasm, but ultimately, the repeated defiance results in boredom and irritated indifference.
Suffice to say, if I were August’s parents, I would hate the shit out of it. Think you’re cute August, trying to do exactly what the other two summer months are doing? You’re wrong August. Nobody loves you. We didn’t even bother to put a holiday in your month. Not even a bullshit Hallmark holiday. Not even Labor Day, the official end to summer. That’s your reward for being hot, humid, horrible and unoriginal: EVERYBODY has a goodbye celebration to summer in September (A FALL MONTH!) because NOBODY likes you August.
I most associate August with dread and impatience. Dread, because of that sick feeling I would get during the last week of summer while in grammar school. Does everybody remember that feeling? The “Here comes another year stuck in the SAME classroom for nine awful months with the SAME teacher redoing the SAME damn Phonics and Handwriting exercise since kindergarten” feeling. Also, during grammar school, nobody knew who the shit was going to be in their class. You just showed up the first day and hoped that kid you snorted glue with was sitting across from you again. (You guys were “Let’s swap Lunchables”-level buds.)
I associate August with impatience because we have to be excited to wait. This is the month of countdowns, where everybody numbers the days until their job ends, football starts, or they go back to college. This is the month where we have to get excited for preseason football, where the most interesting action on the field involves injuries and HBO cameras. This is the month where we have to discuss furniture and bills for our new living arrangements on campus. This is the month where you come closest to telling your boss to “eat shit.” I hope you’re happy August, existing as an insult to calendars, sand-dials and sun-dials.
To recap, I hope you die of heat stroke August. Every year I underestimate your existential stupidity, and every year, you fuck me in the face with a heat wave. I look forward to having embarrassing swamp ass, a consistently moist forehead, and eventually, celebrating your conclusion. I can already see the leaves changing colors now…
Category: Fun
