My summer holiday festivities lean toward the celebration of avoidance and disgust. No beaches, those repulsive landscapes of misted flesh, vile meat splashing and children shrieking. I long to witness a flailing child carried away to the horizon by a riptide. Just to see it. I do like an empty beach in winter, it's the human element that ruins everything. What else is new. And the sun. My fear of bees, wasps, hornets, and yellow jackets combined with the impossibility of faking an enjoyment of eating outdoors makes a picnic out of the question. No one really enjoys eating on the ground off paper plates. How could they, since I don't? Nothing but an ordeal to be endured while you dream of upholstery. Loss of sensation in the lower extremities, the picnic ordeal. It's windy, I can't balance my cup anywhere, how the bees swarm, please just let me die. And how about those picnic tables covered in birdshit? Oops, forgot to anchor my napkin under the revolting can of grape soda I would never buy for myself in a million years and there it goes, flying away. Fuck you napkin. Say hello to my missing plastic spork if you run into it out there. Fuck the both of you. Yeah, you heard me. I never let a napkin have the last word. I learned that lesson.

Independence day, what a joke, every year is more bitter than the last. If you move away from the blare of the parade grounds and listen carefully you can actually hear your freedoms eroding, it's like a subterranean grinding sound.