If I could ask the Universe one question — one genuinely sincere question from the bottom of my heart — it would be this:

Why can’t it be global cooling, goddamnit?

No, seriously. Why can’t it be?

My god, how I loathe the sweltering heat and the blistering sun. Once again, here I am, right on schedule, making my annual “I Loathe Summer” post. And once again, just like I do every year, I am putting my sweaty head down, cranking on the AC to sub-zero temperatures, and trying my hardest to be positive and productive, despite the fact that seasonal mood disorder is kickin’ my wicked ass.

Traditionally, I consider the day after Memorial Day to be the official kick-off to my infernal suffering, which, in the climes of Southern California, generally lasts until about mid-October. And as blistering as it can get around these parts, I cannot even imagine living in the true South. Last year when I did that Disney shoot in Florida, my agony was epic — even in Hell. It was so humid and I was so hot and so uncomfortable that as I drug myself around in the thick, clotted, muggy air, I actually began to get enraged at the locals, thinking to myself, “How in the fuck do you people live here? And further, why in the fuck do you people live here?”

You see, although I pride myself on being an extraordinarily cordial and stoic person — even in the face of great discord and adversity — I’m afraid I can be frightfully surly when overheated. When the sudden realization hits me that my granny panties are dripping wet from the humidity…well, let’s just say I’ve been known to unleash The Kraken.

It certainly doesn’t help matters that due to the dread presence of a chronic disease that leaves me with a 100-degree-plus body temperature on a good day, along with profound photosensitivity that forces me to trail about town perpetually sheltered under my beloved umbrella, I couldn’t enjoy the season even if I felt uncharacteristically inclined to do so — which I do not.

So, my charming message today to all of you misguided sunbunnies out there who celebrate the good ol’ summertime?

Fuck off, lady.

October, you sweet, clement son-of-a-bitch, you can’t get here fast enough.