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“Wake me up when September ends,…”

Green Day
Wake Me Up When September Ends

I find it truly amazing as to how this winter is absolutely and totally sapping me of all my energies. I thought it a lark at first. Something that would ease up as if by surprise, in which the forecast was wrong and we could all go pleasantly about our day.

I see the St. Patrick’s Day green in all the stores and it remains a numb finger in the frigid wind to tell us where the meteorological ship is heading,…but I feel as if we are farther out at sea than we realize. The days are getting longer, but the nights remain steadfastly colder.

And it’s not that I’m a summer person. Summer, to me, is the worst season of the year. I adore autumn.


The decay that begins to transpire around September is always a welcome relief from the dog-days of summer. That doesn’t mean that September falls under the category of a “cool” month, of course,….because there are some really dog days in September,…but it marks the start of the decay.

The tomatoes go into their final stages. The jubilant red offers forth which remains as a reminder of the lack of life-giving chlorophyll. The allegorical chlorophyllical spigot is finally shut off and it’s like hitting the top of a veritable, volatile vegetable roller-coaster hill.

A ripe red tomato denotes the genesis of decay.

A ripe, red tomato is the advent of a new night that is ushered forth in the dawn of a new autumn as it advances to the final stages of it’s existence. That being, of putrid rankness.

I can’t seem to wait for it.

Not for the tomato factor I just explained.

Mostly for the quietness of winter. A winter prelude in the midst of Autumn. 50 degrees, overcast with leaves that have turned from green to to red. A cool wind blows from the Northwest. The hallmark of death and decay.

It’s about that time that I have ceased the various painting projects around my house, the hose gets put away, the lawnmower gets used less frequently. The grill is cleaned and covered as the season pulls the blanket over it’s head and rests in the quiet coolness of a windy Autumn night.

The sun’s floral brilliance is replaced by the flowers of burnt umber as beach blanket bingo is put away for the Friday night lights.

Why does this mean anything? Why does the change of seasons indicate the status of my inner being?

Do I have any answers to these questions?

I do not.

My inner being, as a breathing organism on this planet, dictated by it’s contentment through it’s meaningless surroundings, is controlled by the repeated dawning of these seemingly unending walks through the seasons of life.

Yeah. I’ll be the first to admit it. I hate summer.

I find that there is nothing better than curling up under a heating blanket on a fine autumn day, surrounded by a bevy of pillows, with a lazy dog at my feet.

There is nothing better than a pot of chili on a Sunday afternoon, with nightfall occurring shortly after 5:30pm, while wearing my ripped jeans and a hooded sweatshirt or a red argyle sweater.

Think about it.

All the famous serial murders happened in the summer. That means summer isn’t as good for the psyche as was previously thought….or what people tend to try and convince themselves of, in spite of clinical studies.

Zodiac,…summer. Jack The Ripper,…summer. Son Of Sam,…summer. Manson,…summer.

Why do I know this?

I dunno,…maybe I’m a psycho or somethin’,…or I spend a lot of time reading in the winter.

I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole winter wasn’t a government plot. That this winter wasn’t manipulated by the United States Government,…so as to get everyone on board with hating Edward Snowden.

“Snowden,….Snowed in,….Snowden,….Snowed in”.

That son of a bitch!!!




Yeah. Right.

Didn’t work for me,…



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