How many ways can one girl say she is done with summer? I feel like I have exhausted the phrase. Let me move past words. Actions speak louder, no?
Fuck you, August. I’m wearing boots.
Currently wearing… Top, Madewell [SIMILAR] | Hat, c/o Pitaya | Socks, c/o Free People [HERE] | Boots, c/o Naturalizer [HERE on sale!] | Druzy bracelet, DIY [TUTORIAL] | Gold bracelet, Charming Charlie [HERE] | Silver bracelets, vintage | Scallop ring, c/o Pitaya | Ring set, Madewell [SIMILAR] Sunglasses, c/o Gordmans [SEEN HERE]
I’m kicking you out of the house, summer. You suck. No one invited you and yet you refuse to leave. You make it too hot to wear things I like; attire suitable for your heat gives people the chance to tell me how “porcelain” (read: “jeez, you’re pale”) my legs are, which makes me respond with bitchy lies about being in epic gang rivalries with the sun that no one ever finds funny but me. Your stupid heat is making my stupid oily skin more gross which is giving me more zits that you can see with your stupid hot-weather barely-there clothes. Because of you, I am one power bill away from offering my first born to the electric company. You killed all my flowers and are filling my yard with prospering weeds. How do the weeds live when the flowers die?! What kind of bullshit witchcraft is this? Your sunshine is making me nauseous. Your outdoor street fairs are ruining my commute. I have enough mosquito bites I actually wondered if I had chickenpox. Let me go back to being a Wednesday Addams-style brat wrapped in knitwear drinking overpriced autumn-themed coffees, please.
The open back of this top (and the iced skinny vanilla latte I’m drinking) are my final acceptable summer thrills — and let’s be real, they will both still be better when it’s 65 degrees. I picked up the top and ring set at A Drop in the Ocean‘s recent Madewell back-to-school shopping event. At least back-to-school means it is almost September.
So here’s to the end of this hellish season: This sweaty, humid horror show of bug bites and sunburns and frizzy hair. The time of year when people actually walk from Point A to Point B on city streets in swimsuits despite the serious lack of beach. The season when pedicure-level foam flip flops somehow count as real shoes. The months when those who shave their legs have to do it every damn day. Screw this noise.
Summer, I’m out. Later loser.