Over the last months, my skin went transparent. I showered, Picked ‘n Saved, and organized my dresser drawers for fun. Skipped social outings. Favored social innings: teaching the cat dog-tricks and answering my brother’s phone calls re:nothing, really. Five-three-two-one-two is set to thaw, and I forgot how manic my life will likely get.

Here in four season territory, we’re coming upon the summer binge. The forecast of fifty degrees F raises hopes. We see the bare-legged girls and understand their haste. We’re ready in the starting blocks, listening deeply for that pistol’s shot.

And it'll come. And it'll be loud. Because summer in Milwaukee is not pick-and-choose. It’s the year’s synesthetic quarter, everything-all-at-once. It’s a breeding ground, an all-out freckle fuck: new melanin babies born onto my nose every sunny day.

Maybe the anticipation is due to a long winter’s worth of hype, but let’s not be let down. Let the heat be medicinal. Or, at least, let it placebo affect us into believing that we’re on the mend. Okay? Ready?