The Summer Version of Me Is a Menace

The Summer Version of Me Is a Menace

The summer version of me cannot be trusted.

She wakes up convinced rules are more of a suggestion. She believes sleep is optional, plans are flexible, and consequences are a problem for a colder month. She drinks coffee like it’s fuel and puts on music that makes her think walking is a form of choreography.

Winter me has structure. Spring me has hope.

Summer me has ideas.

Bad ones. Excellent ones. Depends on the mood.

She says yes faster. Stays out longer. Thinks one more song is a reasonable life choice. She answers messages she should ignore and ignores messages she should probably answer. She believes timing is on her side and deadlines are bluffing.

The summer version of me flirts with chaos and calls it inspiration.

She wears lighter clothes and heavier confidence. She walks like the city belongs to her. She suddenly remembers she has opinions. Strong ones. About art. About life. About why now is a perfectly acceptable time to start something new.

She forgets how tired she was in May and refuses to imagine how tired she’ll be in October.

The menace part is a decision to stay a little reckless. To stretch moments past their expiration date. To live like the rules loosened when the temperature rose.

She romanticizes things she knows better than to romanticize. She calls it freedom, but it’s really momentum. Forward motion without overthinking.

Summer me writes less. Dances more. Commits to plans she’ll later renegotiate. She’s convinced every night has potential and every morning can be recovered with enough coffee.

She is fully aware this is unsustainable.

She does it anyway.

By September, she’s tired but glowing. Carrying stories. Promising herself she’ll slow down soon. Soon being a very flexible word.

The summer version of me doesn’t behave. She doesn’t apologize. She is just happy.