And so it has begun, once again.
Sun and heat and wind and bugs and clouds and rain and grass and dirt and gravel and leaves and cold and light and stuff.
Dogshit and catpee and birdcrap and mosquitos and beetles and flies and worms and fish and mud and cows and horses and ugly little dogs, beavers and cranes and birdsong at 5 A.M.
Shorts and sandals and sunbathing and swimming in dirty lakes, hot sand and sticky sand and pine needles and picnics and blankets and grilling and midsummer and the Swedish population spontaneously lobotomizing away why the fuck we built houses in the first place.
Shit and crap and living bugs blowing into anything you try to eat outside, but why the flying fuck would you eat it outside in the first place.
Dead rats rotting in the sun beneath quivering, damp, choking air.
Unless if by blessing the temperature manages to hit that magic perfect where it's not too hot, not too cold, and nobody whines about either. When it might be bearable. But then someone's bugging the shitting crapmonkies out of me trying to force me outside by sheer power of Joker-smiling retardedness. There are starving children! Melting glaciers! War! Turn your attention to something else than my relative location to roofs, please. Why not to this sun-thing, that you can't shut up about.
Hello and gtfo.
Summertime.
