Fall makes me sad because winter and Spring are close. Winter keeps me inside. Spring gives me allergies, forces me to pull out an inhaler in the middle of the street, and makes me scream at the morons wearing fucking parkas in seventy degree weather. (Honestly, if you wear a parka in the sun you deserve to be slapped; you look silly.) Summer is the only thing that matters. Yet I went to college in New York. I’m not complaining; we all know why I moved; no need to belabor you. But Florida is so nice, and till Sunday I’m going to lie on the beach, read, and not give a flying fuck. It’ll be perfection till a crazed drag queen tries to murder me, making me run back to New York. Till then it’s just me, tea, the sun, and Edith Wharton.