Have I mentioned I hate August? Yeah, I think I have. I hate August with a passion that burns like 10,000 yeast infections. Summer is not my friend. I have tried to break up with August several times, but he always shows back up, all hey, baby, if you let me crash at your place I’ll bring September next time. And I get all, NU-UH, August. And he gets all hey, girl. You know how I do. And finally I’m just like, okay, come in. Do what you have to do. I’ll just close my eyes and think of England.
August wears a mullet and jean shorts and is fond of the lip-hugging trash stache. August loves Night Ranger and Quiet Riot. August wears tube socks and Velcro-closure vinyl sneakers from Dollar General. August’s idea of foreplay is a nudge to see if you’re awake. WHICH YOU ARE NOT because who can stay awake when it’s swamp-butt hot outside? August’s idea of lube is plastic seat sweat.
But September? September gives me hope. September is good cop to August’s bad cop. In Memphis, it might not feel like Autumn in September, but it smells like it. Granted, the smell mainly comes from the Arkansas farmers burning off cotton, but IT’S A FALL SMELL and I shall be rejoice and be glad. Even as I gasp like an emphysemic trucker and writhe around like a fish out of water trying to lay my hands on my inhaler so I can get one more lung full of burning herbicides because THEY BY GOD SMELL LIKE FALL AND I WILL TAKE WHAT I CAN GET.
The light in August? Pfffft. One, you know how I feel about Faulkner. Two, September is purdier. And tomorrow? Tomorrow it will be September, finally. Tonight at 11:59, August will pack up his El Camino and leave out for…well, I don’t know where August goes when he leaves. A place where there’s a Chuck Norris marathon playing at the drive in would be my guess. Doesn’t matter. I don’t care where he goes because I don’t have to deal with him for another year.
September SEC football and pot roast. August’s bug bites and antibiotic ointments pale in comparison to college football. Yes, tomatoes are bountiful in August. See, I CAN say nice things about months I hate. But if August is a tomato, September is the bacon to go with that tomato.
I’m not promising I’ll be a kinder, gentler sarcastic wench tomorrow, but I won’t be any worse. And, hell, I’ll prolly be right giddy by the time October shows up. No, I won’t. I know. But that’s the thing about September. It gives me hope.
Do not spoil this for me.