August
August is still the best month, genuinely. Summer break, pools, grilling outside, riding everywhere, looking for someone to fuck in the open air—the entire month is basically permission to want things. We’re supposed to grow up and forget how that felt, but I never quite do, and August reminds me I’m right.
The good stuff is straightforward. Crashing your bike and surviving it. Sweating through cologne in clubs that smell like wet hair and other people’s deodorant. Days where you’re actually living instead of performing productivity at a desk. Making memories so embarrassing they become precious—laughing at yourself in front of your grandparents, waking up strange, having ideas that seem incredible until morning. Dancing in rain because why not. Cheap wine for whatever mood takes you. Cooking food from scratch because the act matters, not the result. Going to bed because you’re exhausted, not because you gave up.
The bad stuff is equally obvious, though slower to recognize. That pale basement-dweller look August isn’t supposed to let you keep. Hangovers that stop being funny. The binge that was actually damage, not adventure. Your mom calling and calling, the specific guilt of not picking up. Not being able to bake anything real. Being good at small talk and hating yourself for it. Your phone on silent because you’ve done something you need to not think about. Forgetting to go to movies. Sex jokes that land flat. Conversations at 2 AM that felt profound and were nothing by morning.
Then there’s what doesn’t fit. Donating to causes when you’re already broke. Missing 500+ episodes of a beloved show because English licensing only covered the first 130. People who’ve climbed above the things they loved, decided they’re too sophisticated now. Empty club nights where nothing happens. A whole weekend sober. Raw food because you can’t be bothered to cook. Passwords that vanish from your laptop. That one sound effect in an otherwise perfect song.
August doesn’t care what you’ve decided is good for you. It just opens itself up and runs, and you either run with it or spend the whole month wishing you had.