Bright, Sunny, and Angry by Evan Barragate

 

The sun was shining this weekend for what felt like the first time in years, and it warmed me up so much that I felt as if I had skipped three months and cast myself in mid-July; it was horrible. This may make it seem like I am insane, begging for attention, or filled with hatred, and while all of these are accurate ways to describe myself in general, none of them have influenced my paradoxical claim regarding the weather.

I resent the beautiful sunshine and humidity because they only exist to force people to do things that they do not want to do and to give people an excuse to avoid doing what they have to do––apart from the more scientific explanations for the existence of the sun and heat. With this, I mean that a sunny day brings the greater expectation that I ought to immerse myself in it throughout my entire day in ways that I typically would not have. The tasks that I am expected to do in the sun are often out of my way and not enjoyable. Why should I suddenly spend half an hour getting to a store just so I can walk there in the sun when I could drive there in five minutes? Why is it less unproductive for me to do nothing while melting in the hot sun when I could be doing nothing in my air-conditioned home? These are things I will never be able to comprehend. I also see the lovely weather as something that occurs only to prevent me from completing the tasks that I have to do––or making it torturous when I do them. I view it as impossible to do any work while it is warm outside or the sun is shining, and I laugh when others suggest that life in California, Florida, or anywhere with good weather would be ideal. I would freeze to death before walking into work wearing a sweaty, sticky suit in 85-degree weather in pants and a jacket when all I want to wear is shorts and a T-shirt.

But these are not the only reasons for my bitterness toward warm air and clear skies. When I am in a foul mood, the last thing I want is a bright, yellow sun telling me to cheer up; it feels like a slap in the face. As an obnoxiously selfish person, I do not want to see kids running around in the yard, birds chirping, people enjoying the sunny day on the front porch, and busy lemonade stands when I am upset. 

If the rain were to pour on my head after having a horrible day, I would not think of it as an ironic twist that makes me want to tear my hair out, unlike most. I would see this as something that can bring me a sigh of relief––because then, everyone else gets hosed down by the start of a bad day, and I am not alone. Yes, I know that this may make me seem like a life-hating pessimist, but I view it as something that makes me enjoy life in different ways. I find it idiotic and immature to rely on the temperature outside, the state of the sky and clouds, and whether or not you can see a giant, fiery ball of death from outer space to determine your mood.

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