An Obituary for My New Year’s Resolutions

Dearest Summer,

Finally freed from the chains of academic hell – the hallways of Stuyvesant High School – I was ready to begin a beautiful 10-week romance under your blistering sun. But alas, as I prepare myself for inevitably re-entering those Doors of Doom, Death, and Despair, I must come to terms with our impending separation.

Allow me to anticipate my onsetting mental breakdown by recounting our time together, so I can proceed to waste what little time I have left wallowing in self-pity and an endless barrage of memes.

I will admit I cannot remember much about our first week together, as I spent 95 percent of it asleep. The highly concentrated cocktail of stress and crippling depression that I had been consuming over the last 10 months resulted in quite the hangover.

However, by the time week two rolled around, I began to have a slow recovery. I was invigorated by a rare motivation to make positive life changes, such as finally getting off the couch. Unfortunately, it turns out that exercising feels like hell, so that plan was quickly scrapped.

I then decided to be productive for once in my life. I spent a solid 35.827 seconds thinking about how I should really start studying for the year ahead. With your love by my side, I confidently ordered a Barron’s book that still sits peacefully undisturbed on my desk and has peeked out my window for a record-breaking three milliseconds.

Alas, like any relationship, we went through our ups and downs. We had our disagreements, like that time you scorched my face off and I spent a solid week more burnt than Trump’s eyes after the eclipse. Despite it all, my undying devotion to you does not change, and I am again reaching a near-catatonic state at the thought of leaving you.

Maybe the most heartbreaking aspect of our separation is that it obligates me to face the workload I have been desperately avoiding. It appears that the high temperatures did nothing to  reverse my sluggish, apathetic nature, so I accomplished a grand total of zero tasks over the course of vacation. As a result, as I move into the abusive rebound that is The Fall, I still have to memorize all of the information inside my AP prep books, figure out what this “SAT” thing is (Sweat, Agony, Tears?), purchase an IKEA book shelf which can store my 23 million pages of AP Euro review sheets and 91 Crash Course volumes, adopt and register a bear as a support animal in order to survive junior year, construct a stroller (cage?) for said bear to bring it to school, acquire a piloting license so that I can fly away from my problems, build a time-travel machine so that I can prevent that one time I tripped on stage at my elementary school graduation from happening, write a letter to Dreamworks demanding an explanation as to why Artie wasn’t given more screen time in Shrek the Third, master kung-fu, and become a legendary painter tutored by the one and only Bob Ross (through my time-travel machine, of course).

Normally, I would blame not getting anything done on my tendency to procrastinate and avoid any sense of responsibility like the Black Death. However, this time around, I am blaming you—I was seduced by your warm beaches and sunny frolic-worthy green fields, forgetting all of my worries. I think you really might be a bad influence.

Honestly, I’m finding it a little hard to not be bitter about your fear of commitment. I mean, can’t you stay year round? Instead, it feels our time together passed by quicker than Scaramucci’s stay in the White House. But, like all good things, our relationship too is nearing its end. Don’t worry about me; I’ve already planned out coping with our break-up by ugly-crying and consuming alarming quantities of ice cream during the first week of school. So now, I’ll set you free and say good-bye, marking June 26 on my calendar for when I shall see you again.

 

Always yours,

Gaby

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