By a man who has noticed that no matter what the weather is doing, people are absolutely certain it should be doing something else.
Let’s begin in winter.
Winter is the time of year when human beings collectively forget that cold exists. Every single year, without fail, it arrives like an unexpected tax bill.
“Oh my goodness, it’s freezing,” people say. As if this has never happened before. As if January has, for centuries, been a tropical beach party and only now decided to experiment with frostbite.
In winter, people transform. Perfectly normal adults become layered, shuffling creatures wrapped in scarves, hats, gloves, and what appears to be a duvet stolen from a Marriott.
They step outside and immediately regret every life decision that led them to this moment.
“I can’t feel my face,” they mutter, as if that’s a surprise when the air itself feels like it’s been refrigerated by angry penguins.
And then, inevitably—inevitably—someone says it:
“I can’t wait for summer.”
Ah yes. Summer. That magical land where everything is better, and no one sweats through their own socks.
Hold that thought.
Because spring arrives.
Spring is nature’s way of saying, “Let’s not get carried away.” It gives you one beautiful, perfect day—sunshine, birds chirping, a gentle breeze—and then immediately follows it with rain, mud, pollen, and a tornado just to keep expectations realistic.
Spring people are optimistic fools.
They step outside in a light jacket, smiling, saying things like, “It’s finally warming up!”
And then—bam—hail. Or sideways rain. Or a gust of wind that removes a patio chair and sends it to another county.
This is also tornado season, which is nature’s way of spinning the wheel and seeing whose shed gets relocated to Nebraska.
And yet, even as their trash cans are being lifted into the sky like some sort of suburban rapture, people still say:
“At least it’s not winter.”
Right.
Then comes summer.
And this is where the grand hypocrisy reveals itself.
Because summer, the season everyone begged for, arrives like an overenthusiastic houseguest who doesn’t understand boundaries.
It is hot.
Not pleasantly warm. Not “ooh, let’s have a picnic” warm.
No. It is the kind of heat that makes you question your ancestry.
You step outside and immediately begin to cook. Slowly. Like a brisket.
The air is thick. The humidity is oppressive. You are sweating in places you didn’t know could sweat.
And suddenly—suddenly—the very same people who, in January, were crying into their scarves are now saying:
“I hate this heat. I wish it was winter.”
Of course you do. Of course.
Summer people are delusional. They say things like, “It’s a dry heat,” while standing in what feels like a boiling soup of regret.
And let’s not forget the weather events.
Summer doesn’t just bring heat. Oh no. It brings hurricanes. Gigantic, swirling monsters that arrive with wind, rain, and the sort of enthusiasm usually reserved for rock concerts.
People stand in front of their televisions watching maps and saying, “It might turn.”
It never turns.
It always arrives, dumps an ocean on your house, floods everything, and leaves you wondering why you ever wished for sunshine in the first place.
And somewhere in the middle of all this, politicians appear.
They stand there, in rolled-up sleeves, looking concerned.
“We are monitoring the situation,” they say.
Of course you are. That’s what you do. You monitor. Meanwhile, Dave’s garage is floating down the street and someone’s lawn flamingo has achieved international travel.
Then—finally—fall.
Fall is the smug season.
It arrives quietly, with crisp air and golden leaves, as if to say, “You see? This is how it should be done.”
People love fall. They suddenly become philosophers.
“Look at the leaves,” they say, as if trees shedding their clothes is a profound life lesson and not just nature preparing for another round of misery.
They wear sweaters. They drink things with cinnamon in them. They go on about “cozy” like it’s a personality.
And for a brief, glorious moment, everyone agrees.
“This is perfect.”
But it isn’t.
Because lurking just around the corner is winter again, sharpening its icy knives and preparing to ruin everything.
And so the cycle continues.
In winter, we want summer.
In summer, we want winter.
In spring, we want stability.
In fall, we pretend we’ve found happiness.
But we haven’t.
Because the truth is, people don’t actually want a season.
They want control. They want sunshine when it suits them, rain only at night, snow exclusively on holidays, and absolutely no hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, or politicians at any point.
Which, of course, is ridiculous.
Because weather, like life, does not care what you want.
It will freeze you, drench you, roast you, and occasionally throw your patio furniture into orbit.
And you?
You will stand there, year after year, shaking your fist at the sky, saying:
“I can’t wait for next season.”
Completely forgetting that when it arrives…
You’ll hate that one too.
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A Kings 
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