When I was a pre-teen and my growing brain made independent thought a more likely possibility, I first expressed my distaste for sunlight. It’s hot and uncomfortable and it hurts your eyes and it makes driving dangerous and there’s nothing particularly nice about.

“He must be going through his difficult stage,” relatives would say, and I looked down to see if somehow I’d accidently slipped into a goth outfit.

These days I’m still written off as difficult, but those around me are beginning to accept that it probably isn’t a temporary assignment.

All because I don’t like sunlight. Oh, I understand the necessity of the stuff. Life on Earth and all that. I just don’t like to be directly under it. Clouds are nice. Ceilings are lovely. I quite like nighttime, and not just because I like to boogie.

And why is that bad? How is that evidence of a disturbed personality? The amazing thing is that everytime I have a conversation about the matter with someone — and inevitably they defend the sun and call me a sour puss — the other person proves completely unable to provide any semblance of rationalization for their belief that a sunny day is a “nice” day. One opinion (i.e. mine) is based on logic and an acute understanding of human desire and the world at large. The other is based either on mass psychosis or some kind of cultural hiccup, or maybe just a desire to us the phrase “sour puss.”


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