By: Cody Boteler, Editor-in-Chief
I’m about to say something that might cost me. It might cost me in any sort of goodwill I’ve got built up on this campus. It might cost me friends. It might cost me some trust and credibility. But I can’t stand by and say nothing.
I. Hate. Fall. I hate it. I think it’s the worst season.
Man. It feels good to get that off of my chest. My sweaterless chest, because I refuse to give in and accept that, technically, we are now in autumn.
When summer grinds to a halt and the temperature drops (which, OK, fine, that’s acceptable to an extent) I don’t get why everyone starts to celebrate. You’re happy that the sun starts to set earlier and earlier? Happy that everyone is cold all the time? Happy that all the plant life around us is DYING?
Don’t get me wrong. Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I love apple cider. Hiking is great. But man, fall is just the worst.
It’s just too symbolic for me. I can’t get behind being happy about the season that everything dies. It’s grim, man. Too grim. Count me in for spring, though, when flowers are blooming and trees are budding.
Isn’t it something? Go to a public school for a few years and work at a news organization and then, one day, you can have a front and center column where, instead of discussing the presidential debate or climate change or income inequality or police brutalitiy you can instead discuss how much you loathe three months out of the year—and nobody can do a single thing to stop you.
Sorry, this is an editorial, not my therapist’s office. I’ll lay off the metaphor and deeper meaning.
I get sad that summer is ending. Summer’s happy, exciting. There’s always something to do. When autumn rolls around, after the equinox, well…everyone retreats inside. I’m not here for it.
Keep your scarves, your pumpkin spice and your sweater weather. Just share the apple cider, please.