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The air is crisp and cool, the sky streaked with low, scuttling, ragged clouds, heading out of town in a hurry, like seasonal tourists. Football is back. School is back. Summer is ending. Yes, it’s time to convince myself that I can tolerate terrible emo butthole takes like this one without throttling someone.

“I like fall,” I say, because I’m not a crotchety misanthrope. “It’s good. I am enjoying myself, and I am not pretending that my distaste of all good things are somehow universal truths of the human condition. I am content and happy, and therefore I will refrain from reading this bad fall take and kicking its progenitor in the nuts for at least a few more days.” That’s the ticket. I can feel the urge to throw hands subsiding for just a moment.

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“No, really, fall is good,” I insist. “The fall colors. I love them.” This is true because colors are nice. I also like the fact that summer is over and I’m no longer sweating through my ears. I can wear pants comfortably. I can get in my car without it broiling me to medium well. Everything is groovy and fine because, like some people, I do not irrationally blame fall for the coming of winter. “I don’t like day because it means night is coming!” I should shit in Albert’s coffee, by God. But I won’t, because you know why? FALL. Fall is nice, and I will focus on that.

When a weekend of unseasonable heat arrives later this month or next, I definitely will not get out and enjoy this last outbreak of summer, because I will be watching football. Indeed, I will pray the autumn winds fall back so that I am happy again. Because if they don’t, and I gotta read another take about why the best season of all is bad, I will jam a rake up someone’s butt, and that’s the fuckin’ truth.