For as long as I can remember, I’ve struggled with summers. On top of absolutely loathing the hot, sticky weather that comes with the season, it’s always seemed to be the time when crappy things happened in my life.

As a kid, summer was when my best friend went away to her family’s beach house and my other friends took off for vacations, summer camps and fun things. Some years, I was stuck miserably at home, and others I was forced by my dad to go to summer school, an experience which plunged me into all new levels of awful.

In more recent years, my worst heartbreaks have been during summer and with them my ugliest hangovers. Un-airconditioned apartments, steamy subway platforms, and the disgusting cockroaches that come out to terrorize me haven’t helped either.

So why all the whining and complaining? Well, basically to explain that this summer, while it’s had its very high highs, has also brought its share of blues. I’ve been in a funk and haven’t really felt like dishing about what I’ve been eating. I’m moody, don’t hold it against me. But I realize it’s silly and dumb to act this way, so I’m getting over it, especially since New York has had one of the coolest summers on record (definitely the most pleasant weather-wise in the five years I’ve lived here) and that’s reason enough for me to be happy.

So yea, sorry I’ve been away. I’m retiring my Lana Del Rey summer anthem and instead going back to bombarding you all with stories of ridiculous things eaten and a million and one popsicles made. I promise. You wait and see.