My time with Facebook may have officially come to an end. Over the years, I have been able to tolerate all of my friends’ photos of the things they made for dinner. Every day I sit there while distant acquaintances try to tell me how great their 5am run went. I’ve made it through the sonogram pictures. Like, you know, pictures of naked humans growing inside people’s stomachs. Someone I went to high school with may or may not have given birth in her bed last week and I got to see pictures of the aftermath. But I’ve finally reached my breaking point.
Tuesday morning I innocently logged into my newsfeed to find that someone had posted this horrible status (I don’t even like posting it here):
To everything there is a season, but it seems to me the recent deaths of some of the writing world’s ultimate greats has been a longer and more brutal season than usual. In the past few months we’ve seen the lives of Maurice Sendak, Adrienne Rich, Ray Bradbury and Nora Ephron come to the end of their final chapter, and I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sentiment for the path they paved and the lessons they taught.
This is how I feel.
It has come to my attention over my 28 years on this planet that extremely white people are just not cut out for heat waves. Like at all. The past two days in New York City have been absolutely brutal, and I am seriously (seriously!) considering a move to northern Scotland, Ireland, or somewhere on the UK countryside where I can enjoy dampness and cool sea air for the rest of my life. (It’s also possible that I have a warped sense of what these countries are like on a day-to-day basis. I blame Kate Middleton.)
I’ve tried to categorize for you the reasons why I, as an extremely pale female of mainly-Irish descent, should be so uncomfortable with this extreme weather, and I’ve found that not only am I extremely sensitive, I’m also a total complainer and a bit of a brat. But I know you’ll all bear with me.