Every time I see a new headline pronouncing it’s “Hot Girl Autumn” or “Short King Spring,” ahead of whatever upcoming season, I want to projectile vomit into the trash can under my desk. While some might say that’s melodramatic, the incessant urge to gag matches the unspeakable dread of the situation: We appear to be handcuffed to the need to name every season until the end of time, and god, my eyes are bleeding. Please, for once, I would like to have an undefined summer.
We as humans have operated under one very efficient system for a long time, you see. It used to just be winter, and then spring, and then fall (or perhaps autumn, if you’re a native east coaster with a penchant for wearing Sperrys), and then it was winter once more. We debated whether or not we knew we were heating the Earth at alarming rates (we are). We brawled over whether D*nald Tr*mp was a misogynist fraudster (he was), but this one thing we agreed upon: The seasons would come and go. They were defined, and we dared not change them.
Yet, in 2019, a “real ass bitch” knew she was gonna get “lit.” That’s right: Megan Thee Stallion, the only woman on earth who can earnestly scream “real hot girl shit” without getting some side eye because, you know, she invented the saying, pronounced in an aptly titled song that the summer of 2019 would be “Hot Girl Summer.” Given that Megan is a world-renowned rapper and Thee Hot Girl, she can do such a thing. And girls everywhere did in fact “do hot girl shit” throughout the sunny season, fighting to live up to the great prophecy that Megan set forth.
Now, three years later, things have quickly devolved. As each new season approaches, a cringe-y new proposition floats out from either a news desk or from the annals of TikTok, declaring it the season of some stupid thing we don’t all feel like living up to. In 2021, there was “Hot Vax Summer”—just before Delta blew up our spot and produced “Tired Girl Autumn.” That same year brought us “Short King Spring” and “Cold Girl Summer” (according to Blake Lively’s nipples). This year, there’s been some murmurings of “Sad Girl Spring”—inherently dumb because my entire existence thus far has been an eternal spring of sadness. And who can forget the impossibly bad suggestion of “White Boy Summer,” coined by nepotism shithead and aspiring rapper Chet Hanks?
All of these failed monikers leave me genuinely curious as to whether or not we could go just one season without making it irrevocably stupid. I’d like to have one undefined summer, in which we can just be whatever the hell we are during year three of a seemingly unending pandemic. Sure, I hope it’s filled with pictures of me in a bikini, taking numerous thirst traps after half a sip of a White Claw. I’d love a few months of whimsy and mystery! But, on the off chance that my summer is less ass-up on a yacht and more sitting in front of my air conditioner sweating and crying, I will not be disappointed with myself, because I have not shouted in every social media caption for six months that,“THIS WILL BE MY HOT GIRL SUMMER, BITCH.” To manifest a vibe for every season is an exercise in futility—not to mention an unreasonable amount of pressure for any one person! For the rest of the year, I’d like to be hot (or not!) at my leisure.
Sometimes, to our collective dismay, we must let trends be trends—meaning that they are fleeting and that they end. Otherwise, we’re just letting on that we are far closer to grannyhood and “It’s what the kids are doing these days!!!” than we thought. Anyways, have a great whatever the hell spring, you weirdos.