Dear Surprise Sunshine,

Dear Surprise Sunshine,

Oh, my mistake. You now go by the name, Sweaty Pits Sunshine, or Eternal Sauna Sunshine, or Stubbornly Sedentary Sunshine. Regardless, I am speaking to the one and only sun way up in space hiding behind all those stars and other galactic obstacles. Trust me, the only thing keeping me from wringing your neck right now is a minor little gravity issue, and a pathological fear of being anastronaut. Hence why I am writing you a letter. And I swear, if you “accidentally” burn this letter again with your “lack of hands” whatsoever and your spontaneous, probably hormonal driven “solar flares”, we are just not on speaking terms.

So, let’s hash this out. What happened here? One day, I’m writing love letters to you every day, longing to see even just a peak of your glorious face, and the next I’m hiding from your unpredictability. You need to make up your mind. When I wake up and check the weather, a range of ten degrees leaves me with a miserably low success rate in choosing which clothes to wear.

Pants left me feeling as though my legs were replaced with sausages and they were being squeezed into warm saran wrap, and even the lightest of scarves were reminiscent of a balaclava. After the removal of the scarf and the replacement of pants with shorts, I started questioning whether a balaclava-like accessory would prevail over the impending sweat stains that became entrenched in my backpack straps, and, well, my entire back itself.

How is one expected to navigate through this heat? Am I honestly expected to give in to the forbidden crop-top with low-rise shorts fad? Should I abandon my wardrobe entirely but for a Jesus-like set of robes? Should I start the first nudist club on McMaster campus? Should I stop suggesting ideas that will never (thank the lord) come into fruition?

Ultimately, sunshine ol’  pal, I want you to set a reminder to send us back a little note in joyous spring time, where a sweater may accompany most outfits, even a breezy scarf, but at least the classrooms of crowded students will smell of simply hormonal BO rather than BO from the streets of hell. The air is fresh, light, and walking outside won’t feel like I’m smashing into a steaming sumo wrestler. So the first time someone says, “Ugh, I need summer already,” you should send the type of note that sings to them, but this time, it will blast a stream of hot air right in their face and they will shut it and sigh with great relief, “Phew! Almost wished it was summer in Hamilton again.” That’s something we can work out together, right?

Yours truly,

Melting Mo