I tell you, honestly, that I prefer winter to summer.I like the shorter days. I like wearing sweatpants and warming my hands on mugs of hot coffee and tea. I own more hoodies than I do collared shirts and my dog has a fur coat that, were it not his own, would have been ruined by red paint long ago. I keep my heat off during winter as long as I can stand it (which might explain why a pipe burst in my Portland, OR apartment last December, but I prefer to blame the uninsulated plumbing.). I would choose to stand, gloved handed and wool capped, drinking beers around a bonfire over sitting and downing mojitos with my toes in the ocean any day (However, the smell of the sea, or, more so, the sound of a river in July, will often enchant me into a half clad day in the sun. I don't wear sunscreen. Largely I forget to.Additionally, I feel cheated when I do. I love the sun. I cannot live without it. Yet it burns me and, uninhibited, will destroy the world. We have a terrible relationship.) The worst sunburns I've ever received have come on snowy days.

It is august now, and still far too hot. We need a thunderstorm here and only ever get a drizzle. My season is coming though. I don't know what this blog will become. I named it what I did because searing heat described the day, or maybe the one before. Check back sometime, it will soon be September, and then it will soon be winter.

Until then, I can always suffer a northeastern autumn. Maybe I will write about it as I do.