So. The end of June, or rather, the end of summer, stealthily stalks near. You can tell it's taunting you, creeping silently on tiptoe just beyond your reach, dancing and twisting and laughing with exquisite pleasure, sardonically grinning and tormenting you. Fall is a season unlike any other. It lacks the joyous life of summer, the miracle of birth of spring and the incomparable warmth of family in the winter. It is the black raven of seasons, the haunting howl of the wolf and the shrouded green eyes of mystery.
Good. Now that we've established what an unpleasant and mind-numbingly disturbing period of time we are about to endure, it is equally important to gauge the value of the season we just spent senselessly frolicking in meadows or lying face down on tabletops like vegetables. I've written a lot of entries about summer, and how it's 'going to be great'. Let's think back, carefully, and ponder in hindsight. Was it? Cue drumroll, collective build up of voices and the omnipresent comedian drummer: ba-dum crash! NO! It wasn't.
Perhaps you're confused, perplexed, or worried even, about why you don't share these feelings. You may have been for instance, emphatically screaming 'yes, yes and yes', smashing things in frenzied excitement, or even hollering in russian over the phone to your closest friend during the last group cheer. Well, if you were, I'd advise a doctor or psychiatrist. Immediately.
Unlike most other long vacations, summer is probably the only one which can instil the Material Rejection Syndrome in a person's mind. Yes, you may certainly Google it if it pleases you. This effect, once imprinted in a mind grows at an unimaginable pace, causing you to vehemently detest even the most enjoyable experiences of your life, and unfortunately including ice cream and singing cats, and will make you seriously downplay their significance. This is a highly contagious mental state is most commonly and most easily transferred from one person to another at the end of summer where mournful wailing and shaky whimpers are all too often heard. The only prerequisite for transmission of the condition is severe emotional breakdown- equal in magnitude to the realisation a day before school starts that one has far more homework than one originally assumed. Curse that one.
The only thing that triggers this reaction more effectively is long term and incessant exposure to the colour red. (And you wondered why there was no life on Mars.) On earth, this can only be tested in one scenario: an interview with a bull from the ring. Naturally, we'd need sufficient proficiency in the famed language of Bull, but there have been rumours that men across the world are becoming increasingly skilled in conversing in Bull. ( Source: Wives, mothers and sisters across the globe).
Perhaps this could be an interesting field of further study and experimentation. In any case, it has provided a perfunctory explanation for the repulsively banal nature of this year's summer. In short, once infected with the Syndrome even dancing atop the Eiffel Tower with Micheal Jackson to a live performance of 'Staying Alive' would appear to be as appealing as waking up on the floor covered in bile and feathers. Unfortunate. And rather icky, don't you think?
Good. Now that we've established what an unpleasant and mind-numbingly disturbing period of time we are about to endure, it is equally important to gauge the value of the season we just spent senselessly frolicking in meadows or lying face down on tabletops like vegetables. I've written a lot of entries about summer, and how it's 'going to be great'. Let's think back, carefully, and ponder in hindsight. Was it? Cue drumroll, collective build up of voices and the omnipresent comedian drummer: ba-dum crash! NO! It wasn't.
Perhaps you're confused, perplexed, or worried even, about why you don't share these feelings. You may have been for instance, emphatically screaming 'yes, yes and yes', smashing things in frenzied excitement, or even hollering in russian over the phone to your closest friend during the last group cheer. Well, if you were, I'd advise a doctor or psychiatrist. Immediately.
Unlike most other long vacations, summer is probably the only one which can instil the Material Rejection Syndrome in a person's mind. Yes, you may certainly Google it if it pleases you. This effect, once imprinted in a mind grows at an unimaginable pace, causing you to vehemently detest even the most enjoyable experiences of your life, and unfortunately including ice cream and singing cats, and will make you seriously downplay their significance. This is a highly contagious mental state is most commonly and most easily transferred from one person to another at the end of summer where mournful wailing and shaky whimpers are all too often heard. The only prerequisite for transmission of the condition is severe emotional breakdown- equal in magnitude to the realisation a day before school starts that one has far more homework than one originally assumed. Curse that one.
The only thing that triggers this reaction more effectively is long term and incessant exposure to the colour red. (And you wondered why there was no life on Mars.) On earth, this can only be tested in one scenario: an interview with a bull from the ring. Naturally, we'd need sufficient proficiency in the famed language of Bull, but there have been rumours that men across the world are becoming increasingly skilled in conversing in Bull. ( Source: Wives, mothers and sisters across the globe).
Perhaps this could be an interesting field of further study and experimentation. In any case, it has provided a perfunctory explanation for the repulsively banal nature of this year's summer. In short, once infected with the Syndrome even dancing atop the Eiffel Tower with Micheal Jackson to a live performance of 'Staying Alive' would appear to be as appealing as waking up on the floor covered in bile and feathers. Unfortunate. And rather icky, don't you think?
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