Summer has slipped away again. And I am writing about it again.
At the end of November, I never feel like writing about how autumn has slipped away. But summer exemplifies the two things that I hate most about being an adult. One is that I don't get a summer vacation. But the other, bigger thing is how fast time goes by. When I was young, each summer lasted for an entire lifetime, a lifetime of heat and humidity and freedom and boredom and air conditioning and television. Now it's May, and then there are a few weeks of warm weather, and then a few weeks of cool weather, and then it's January, and then a few weeks later it's May again. Nothing seems to last. It's like perpetually falling over a waterfall.
But I can look on the bright side—since I've never managed to become famous, I don't have to worry about anyone nominating me to take the Ice Bucket Challenge.
