I fucking hate summer.

jgh:

I hate the heat. The humidity.

I hate the sunlight. I am naturally very pale. I just pick up the most bollia-colored foundation at Sephora and hope for the best.

I must slather myself in Neutrogena SPF 90 in a furious lather and I wish I had a real sun-shade bubble, like John Travolta in the TV movie. Except without any irony value.

I hate that we don’t have an air conditioner. Hate the sweating beneath the thinnest of fabrics. Bacne.

I hate that I am too fucking fat to insouciantly wear diaphanous sundresses. That I’m between sizes. Cute things - bikinis, H+M tunics - beckon, but I don’t want to bare my arms or thighs. Too self-conscious, no longer naturally thin, at least by exacting Manhattan Standards. The size 2 girls wear hot pants. I pull up my Levi’s jeans and feel like Fudgie the Whale.

Where’s my goddamned ice floe?

nough said