An open letter to the Sun

Oh Mr. Sun, Sun, Mr. Golden Sun... eat shit.

You're never there when we want you to be, while Seattle is blanketed in a two-month long veil of gray. You screw with our minds when you poke out in the morning, only to hide behind clouds for the rest of the day.

Then, once you finally decide to come out for an extended period of time, you have the audacity to blaze hotter than most of our pasty white bodies can handle. Thanks for that.

Does the American Association of Dermatologists have you on their payroll or something? You go around blazing your damn rays down at us puny beings that go months on end without seeing you and burn the living crap out of us, giving us blisters and farmer tans, not to mention melanoma. You make leather seats too hot to sit on and you melt my damn ice cream (which I paid for, thank you very much).

Mr. Sun, we're tired of this lopsided relationship. Either commit to it or pack your F-ing bags for good.

Peace.