(This was a class assignment to unleash yet another sonnet on an unsuspecting world. I guess Shakespeare didn't make enough, or something. Summer SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) is a rare sub-group of the rare sub-group of people who suffer seasonal depression due to lack of sunlight. Which makes Summer SAD especially ironic because the main thing prescribed to those afflicted in the Winter is getting sun (whether real, or ultraviolet light therapy). For Summer SAD the prognosis/treatment is pretty much "Don't leave your house until night, or rainy days, or maybe October.")
If I compared thee to a Summer's day,
it means I do all I can to avoid
long exposure, which will wear me away,
leaving me exhausted, hot an annoyed.
You are like the merry crowds at the beach:
a too-loud, terrifying pale thing
that smells of coconut; gaudy, bleached;
picking sand from the awful lunches they bring.
Yes, I compare thee to a day of Summer,
(the Winter of my Discontent). Diagnosed
with Summer SAD, Summer is a bummer;
I stay in, air-conditioned, curtains closed.
To paraphrase these three quatrains' intent:
You're like Summer. That's not a compliment.
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