Please Indian Summer, be gone. It’s 79 degrees out. It should be 63, at most. Sweaters, tweed, corduroys, jeans. I long to usher you out with puffy vests and thicker weight socks. Hot soups and hard-shell squashes. Briskness. I have a personal rule not to buy decorative gourds or cook anything pumpkin until I’m at least wearing long sleeves.
Leaves are changing color and people are in tank tops. Even though it’s Boston, and nearly October. Last night we used the window unit A/C in the bedroom, and still woke up sweating. This is almost as bad as when it snows in late April.
I take that last one back. It’s not worth angering the gods of the everlasting northeast winter. But alright already, where is fall?
Now for a non-sequitur. This song (and accompanying dance moves) is pretty groovy, and at least if the lady gets hot, she can dive into in a heart-shaped pool, which I’m pretending isn’t a hot tub. Make way, swan boats, I’m coming in.
“Kiss Them For Me,” Siouxsie and the Banshees