I can't even count the number of times I spat at the summer weather just to force a little rain. I suppose that's how summer hell works. Sweat from your butt rolls into the crack and you never make it through a slice of watermelon without a seed pissing you off.

But now, oh yes, the air is cooler than room temperature whiskey. It's the kind of weather where every song on the radio sounds perfect.

Anyway, I'm totally calling it. Summer's time of death was ten minutes ago. It's officially corduroy season. Time to stock up on lentil soup.