A Copywriter’s Blog

Fair readers, I have had an epiphany: I hate summer in New York.

I don’t merely loathe or despise or wish ill upon it. I actively hate it. It’s the sort of emotion that causes people to wear explosive overcoats and ride public transportation. Except explosions are hot, and it’s quite fucking hot enough dammit thank you, and also I think at this point the metaphor has sort of broken down.

Point is, the heat and humidity I’ve been experiencing makes me stabby. I don’t know why I’ve suddenly decided I can’t handle the thermal offerings of our planet’s celestial glowing orb, but I can’t. Every morning when I leave my apartment, it’s like a kick in the nuts that makes my armpits water.

That made perfect sense, just think about it for a second.

Rather than merely make me uncomfortable, the weather has been making me uncomfortable and homicidal. I’ve begun to talk to The Wife about having a baby, just so I can shake it. The fact that I make it from the train station to my apartment without killing anyone is an act that should qualify me for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Which is why I have decided that from here on out, the four seasons are Fall, Winter, Spring, and Hulk. And that I shall be working from home until the start Fall.

Don’t make me go outside. You wouldn’t like me if I went outside.

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