Spring Fever? Or just HORNY?
I fear this is just *who* I am: lazy and depraved.
As soon as April hits, I come down with a nasty case of Spring Fever.
As in, work doesn’t feel important.
Neither does paying my bills. Or opening up the mail.
The gym? What’s that?
Checking my bank balance? I don’t know her.
Honestly, anything rooted in reality flies out the window come Spring. My ADHD makes focusing on the mundane mild inconveniences of life a challenge on the best of days—but in the Spring—forget about it, honey. I can’t retain a morsel of information. If someone gives me instructions or directions, I black out. I’m away with the fairies the minute they open their mouths. I’m busily daydreaming about, you know—Spring Things: A cold bottle of dusky pink rosè. Fields of yellow tulips. Burberry trench coats. My favorite floral fragrances: Viktor&Rolf Flowerbomb, Gucci Flora “Gorgeous Gardenia,” Marc Jacob “Daisy Eau So Intense,” Miss Dior “Blooming Bouquet,” Bond Number 9 “Chelsea Flowers,”—etc.
But mostly; I’m daydreaming about sex.
My sexual baseline is on the feral side; we know this. But in the Spring, I’m rabid. Animalistic, teeming with a relentless desire to get down and dirty, morning, noon, and night. All I’m interested in is thrashing around the bedroom, everything else is horrifically boring.
Springtime sex is distinct, stylistically, too. It’s not about the love sex. It’s about the cold fuck. Which is great news for couples—cold fucking your lover? It’s a rare, fleeting treat. So save the shmaltz for the summer, babe. It’s the season of the slut, so behave accordingly and fuck without feelings. If I can do it, so can you. My emotions are an unruly ocean, not even Prozac can’t tame those waves. Yet, I’m able to beautifully compartmentalize the physical from the emotional this time of year. It’s a lovely reprieve. I have the rest of the year to cry. But in April and May, my tear ducts are drier than the Sahara because I fixate on nothing but unemotional sex, which works wonders on stabilizing the ole’ mood. Turns out the plethora of intensity and love and heartbreak and grief and the rest of the heavy shit I center my life around—is unequivocally depressing.
Oh, this is what it must feel like to be a light, airy person! I’ll merrily chirp to myself as I do something basic: observe the butterflies, drink an iced latte, twirl my hair, whatever. Ping-ponging between basic bitchery and depraved sexual fantasy is my Springtime routine, now that I think about it. If there was a pill that could turn my insides into the month of May, I’d be first in line at the pharmacy, I like this life of fluff and fashion; fucking and no feelings.
Last Spring was not full of fluff and fashion; it was emotional warfare. My brother was dying, and I was being relentlessly stalked and harassed.
This Spring isn’t looking too hot either—I’m knee-deep in book two. Bookwriting and Springtime are like laxatives and sleeping pills, they don’t serve one another. Most of the year, writing about the most excruciating pain I’ve ever endured feels very much in alignment. In the Spring, it just kills my fucking sparkle.
I’m at a pivotal crossroads of life, my darlings. Do I write through the Spring and go into summer with a finished manuscript, ready to send off to the agents? Or do I say screw it, pour myself a nice glass of rosè and order a pair of shiny gold handcuffs off Amazon?
On one hand, I committed to finishing my book by June 18th, and meeting that deadline is virtually impossible if I don’t write every single day of Spring. It’s a self-imposed deadline, yes—but I take self-imposed deadlines seriously—it’s the only way to survive as a working creative.
On the other hand, last Spring was a traumatic experience and if I’ve learned one thing this year, it’s this: experiencing the seasons is a privilege. Tomorrow isn’t a guarantee, let alone Spring 2026. My body, mind, and spirit long for a lust-ridden Spring spent dining out alfresco—but my brain and bank account are like, WRITE THE BOOK, BITCH. YOU SIGNED UP FOR THIS LIFE OF WRITING AND PAIN. YOU DON’T GET TO WALK AWAY JUST BECAUSE THE AIR SMELLS LIKE GUCCI FLORA. GET TO WORK, SLUT.
But then I’ll flip open my laptop, and the static screen will scorch my cornea. So I’ll look out the window for a little break. And after several seconds of window gazing I can practically smell the jasmine wafting through the dewy air.
And then something *primal* washes over me, something *much* bigger than me. I have to physically hold myself back from texting little Michelle: WANT TO MEET ON A HOTEL ROOFTOP AND DAY DRINK?
And when that desire blows over, as desires always do, I have to hold myself back from sending a long-winded salacious sext to my girlfriend.
But then I remind myself that she’s busy being a boss bitch and likely won’t even notice my wordy thirst trap until late evening.
And then I’ll become imprisoned by my own shame.
Like. why do I have to be this feral freak who can’t keep it in her pants just because it’s about four degrees warmer than usual? Why can’t I be a Boss Bitch like my successful girlfriend, who never loses focus, ever, when she’s working. I could rip my clothes off and belt Broadway tunes, and she wouldn’t flinch. A tsunami could wash us away, and she’d still be typing. This is why she owns property, and I rent everything even my clothes.
My deepest fear is that my core nature is my Spring nature. That if it weren’t for cultural pressures, the judgment of others, and my towering ego—I’d be a vacant sex fiend with no ambition or impulse to create art. What if it’s not the Spring that’s hijacking my brain with endless thoughts of depraved sex—what if I’m just a horny little bitch? And have adopted this narrative that Spring is a hyper-sexual, wildly unproductive season because it gives me a lovely excuse to be who I *really* am? And who I really am—it turns out—is a savage.
What if I force myself to do hard things like write books because if I didn’t, I’d submit to the dark side, and end up broke with gout?
I’m anxious just thinking about it.
So, I will continue to work on my book.
However.
It *is* a gorgeous day in Los Angeles, darlings. And I do need to have a life to write about, you know? So I’ll just go out for a little bit…sit at a bar, order one innocent glass of sauvignon.
Just one.
Because we all know that “one glass of wine” NEVER leads to two. To three. To five. To sexting during business hours. To cold fucking at 2 AM midweek….Oh no. I don’t know what on EARTH you’re talking about…