Who am I? Who are you? Peachtree City in the summer is like that song by Matchbox 20, you know, the Mad Season one? All year long everyone holds their breath, waiting for summer, waiting for lazy policemen with no interest to catch you speeding in your golf cart and waiting for the pools to open. And then, the goshdarned minute whoever is in charge of telling us what season it is tells us that it's summer, everything goes mad. First, it starts to rain. And not like rain like Oh, how wonderful, a summer shower!, but rain like holy fuck, it's raining AGAIN, honey, get the yacht. This is the type of rain that sneaks up on you, the type you NEVER SEE COMING..........until it hits you, BLAM, in the face when your golf cart's windshield is half down and you dont have the cover with you. It ruins plans! It drowns small mammals! Even the fish are getting sick of all the goddamned rain! Second, things go funny. Machines that worked one day mysteriously break the next. Just go kaput, decide to give up, and die of mecha heat stroke or whatever those things die of. The charge meter on your golf cart is always on the last three bars when you're eight miles from home, your hose hisses and spits and spins out of control, every sprinkler in your lawn breaks...you name it, if it's mechanical or robotic, or useful during the other three seasons, it breaks in the summertime. Third, people go funny. Boys you thought were nice church guys start to smoke and drink and cuss and kill cats or whatever. The guy you have a crush on, who was TOTALLY flirting with you the day before, is found hanging all over next door neighbor girl, and then hiding from you behind his golf cart when you look next time. even YOU go funny...you start to sneak out more, you start to want to try to see what it's like to be drop dead stone drunk, you speed your golf cart and run into stuff and drive in thunderstorms because you like the sound of the anger of the storm and how you could hydroplane into the highway and die any minute (but you say the Lord's Prayer the entire way home, anyways, because you forgot to do the laundry and you want to finish atleast THAT before you die). And everything in the summer sounds so much more romantic, so much more slow, you wonder how in between all these wannabees dreaming of Californication and these bleary eyed fools there could be even a single remnant of the past you were so in love with? Yeah, you know what I mean, the one with the big green dress and the featureless face from beneath the floppy summer hat, something straight out of Gone With The Wind that you would much rather be a part of than the Fourt of July parade. Who goes to that, anyway? I mean, besides everyone? And you have this insane urge to break into the bleeding house in your best friend subdivision, because, you want to know, do the walls really bleed? Do houses cry? I know people do. And what am I doing here?