Ask your average self-proclaimed artsy intellectual, and they will tell you (in a whiny, sniveling voice) that fall is the best of all the seasons.
They get a mist in their eyes as they talk nostalgically of the brilliant rainbow of leaves confettied in the trees, and that cozy feeling of being able to bundle up in a knit sweater next to a warm fire drinking hot cocoa to fend off the biting cold.
Well, let me tell you something, Mister Thoreau, finding beauty in death and gravitational dismemberment is not my bag, baby.
These are the types of self-righteous pricks who think Wes Anderson movies are brilliant, Jackson Pollock is an artist, and Philip Glass is a musical genius. These people will be the first to go when I am in charge.
Now let's break down the hate:

Fall Apparel
Okay, let's just start with sweaters.
Every hippie will tell you that they yearn for the fall so they can bundle up in their big sweaters. Well, let me tell you something.
They suck ass.

This dog hates sweaters as well.

The name itself elicits a cringe. A piece of clothing named after an unpleasant bodily function? No thanks. Would you wear pants if instead they were called "Drool" or "Post-Nasal Drip"? I would too, but that's beside the point.
These torturous arrangements of wool actually induce discomfort.
If I want to go numb and itch like a fiend, I'll take about 80 milligrams of Oxycontin with my drug addict friends, thank you very much.
Accursed turtlenecks are no better. It's like a tiny midget is on your back gently strangling you all day long. And it's doubly annoying if you have long hair and it gets caught in the fabric should you turn your head to the side, so you're forced to walk around, turning with your entire upper body to look at the world around you like some sort of Russian Robot. I don't know what that means, but I think you understand.
And coats. Don't even get me started with coats.
I refuse to wear them. Yep, all fall and winter long, it's layer after layer of t-shirts and fleece for me, because I cannot STAND the swish-swish of my arms when I walk, or the inability to bend my elbows.
And what happens when you actually get to your destination out of the cold? Like the mall, or something? You either break into a dirty pig sweat, or you have to carry around this huge cumbersome swishy package of uselessness.
No, take it from psychos like me, leave your coat in the car if you must bring one, and then dash screeching like a banshee on a bad acid trip into the warm embrace of the mall.
As for the lower extremities, I seem to improperly mix my seasons.
All summer long, I work in an indoor summer theater camp kept oddly frigid so as not to, I don't know, melt the sets? Anyway, this is a blessing in disguise, as I get to wear my jeans all summer long, keeping onlookers safe from the sight of my misshapen and ghastly pale legs in shorts.
But in the winter, there often comes a time when I am required to dress up nicely. Believe it or not, this tomboy, when sufficiently threatened by my mother/friends/members of the clergy, looks like she was right smacked with a Pretty Stick.
But lucky me to have been blessed with the sex that decided, hey! It's winter, but it's still socially acceptable to don a drafty foot and a half long piece of fabric around your waist!
The boys? Envelop 'em up in a coat and tie and slacks, but you, you just go wrap this washcloth around you somehow and we'll call it a night on the town.
Okay, so Thoreau was right about some things...

Wait, you're not a doctor, you're a cartoon! And you're holding up some sort of weight or q-tip thing! No, no, no, this doesn't add up at all!

Getting Sick
Fall. The beginning of flu season, where for some reason, my crazed mother thinks it's hilarious to let some quack inject me with a very alive, very painful strand of the flu virus. In some contradictory form of reasoning, this is supposed to help me avoid catching the virus. No. "Wah, Lauren, it's not alive, and it helps you become immune". No. The shot hurts like a bitch, and my nineteen year old brother, who oddly is a bitch, likes to punch me repeatedly in the arm minutes after receiving it. Also, seemingly minutes later, I contract the flu anyway. Thank you, Doctor Insanity. Do you have any needles with hepatitis lying around, because it might be funny to jab some of those into me as well.
Yes, you would be correct in saying I don't trust doctors. Why? Well, because every fall, they inform me that I have diabetes. This was a very frightening discovery when they told me the first time. A relief later, when they informed me it was a mistake. Another frightening discovery when they told me... the same thing the next year... Then another relief when they realized they were just joshing again. This cycle of comedy continued for five years, until I just stopped going to the doctor in the fall all together.
Now, in their defense, it is my own wacky body's fault. For some odd reason, I forget how to process glucose every fall. My body thinks it's amusing to punish me when I forget breakfast by halfway through the day, by causing me to pass out on some lady.
Yes, in hindsight, Body, the unexpected falling upon some short old woman is very funny, but also inappropriate.
I assume that this wacky glucose business is responsible for my exhibiting many of the other symptoms of diabetes, the dizziness, the cuts that won't heal, the 55 trips to the bathroom an hour, but still...
Thanks a lot, Fall. In the spring, I'm fit as a fiddle. I could not eat for days and... well, eventually pass out on various short people, but I could probably skip breakfast with no repercussions.

Fuckin' Boys...

Hey guys, is Lauren happy? She is? Where's her boyfriend's arrow? Yeah, go shoot it into that girl over there. The one with the huge boobs.

75% of the boys I have dated have each dumped me in the fall, and I don't even think the last 25% counts, because he was just sort of a fake boyfriend I dated because I thought it was funny to date a crackhead (It was). Anyway, the other three each dumped me with in a couple months' anniversary of each other. Something about the end of August through Mid October just tells boys "Hey, you don't really need to be dating her, do you? No, you don't have anyone else, but I mean... football season's upon us, and there's that book you wanted to read - why not dump that girl who thinks she loves you?"
This always strikes me as a tiny bit off, because instinctively, you'd think people would want to keep lovers close in the cuddling seasons. But apparently, fall is the season of change, the season of reflection, and the season of dumping Lauren.

There are plenty more things about fall that I hate, but they are easily summarized. Dry skin sucks, as does darkness at 5 PM, and seasonal depression is not really a fun thing to have.
But to be fair, on the bright side, there's uh... Well, there's cool stuff on TV. There's the I-Hate-Fall Celebration that I just made up where I buy presents for myself. That's always fun.
Uh... Apple Cider? I got nothing here.



Anyway. Down with Fall.