First of the Season

It's official, fall is here. How do I know?

Well, it's not the rain. The occasional torrential downpour isn't enough to convince me that my most loathed of seasons rapidly approaches.

It's not the fact that I had to sleep with the heater on in my room last night, after having stowed my portable a/c and fan back in my spacious closet. I still had that thing out in June, and I have faith in the possibility of a fluke cold spell, suspicious though I may be.

It's not the fact that the clothing stores have long since started selling jackets and advertising fall sales. It's not that the beers have red and golden colored leaves adorning their cans (beer marks the changing of seasons here with even more anticipatory fervor than clothing retailers).

It IS, however, the sniffle you hear coming from the person next to you on the train. But no, that could be allergies. It could be the sneeze you hear across the room, but nah. It could be my friends passing the same cold around between themselves and their odd love triangles, but even then I can ignore that. No, I'm afraid my proof that fall has truly come is the sore throat I have now. The queasiness in my stomach, the constant need to hauk and spit in the morning, these things mean winter is not far off. This is why I hate winter.

People who hate humidity can suck me off. People who hate mosquitos can eat a dick. A/c fixes one, bug spray another. No amount of climate control or topical spray is going to prevent either of the two highly communicable winter illnesses that make fall and winter a hellish nightmare. I fucking HATE being sick.