Summer is the sexiest thing on the planet. Go outside at night; it's pleasant, not freezing cold. Go to work in the day, make money. Don't want to socialize? Great, do nothing for as long as you want. Assuming you aren't in summer classes (oxymoronic and regular moronic) and don't work a 9-5 job, summer is unquestionably tantalizing.
Yet here I am, anxiously awaiting the return of college and, along with it, diligence. There will be homework, there will be obligations, tan skin will be replaced with chapped lips, days of the week will again become relevant, boredom will become stress, discomforting heat will turn to shivering and sickness.
That sounds not at all appealing. Neither does being away from my beloved Springfield friends. Neither does sharing bathrooms, dorm food, sleepy lectures, waking up late for class, missing the bus, trying out and not making improv troupes, or going to parties I don't actually want to be at.
Summer is like stopping time. You can do whatever you want. Grab that American-made freedom by the balls and swing it around — make it your bitch. But, nothing's happening. So? Why am I not okay with this?
Schoolyear, as I'll call you, you are one ugly whore. You show me no loyalty, treat me like crap, look like an abused dog, and practice poor hygiene. I can't believe I'm saying this, but, come back to me baby. I miss you. Don't judge my tastes, guys. She's crazy in bed, I swear. She knows me. We're just good together, okay?