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The Last Panic Attack of June

The last panic attack of June is pretty ho-hum. Almost embarrassingly so. I’m kind of rooting for it, to be honest. “Go out with a BANG,” I say, “not a whimper.” I truly expected better from the last panic attack of June.

If I had to pick a Hogwarts house for my panic attack, I’d toss it into Hufflepuff. It’s not strong enough, nor cruel enough, for Gryffindor or Slytherin. And due to its utter lack of brain fog, Ravenclaw is out. So it gets the leftover house. But when you’re a panic attack that resembles a lukewarm ham and pea soup, you’re lucky to get anything at all. It’s a letdown, really, this last panic attack of June.

If this panic attack were a dinner guest, he’d (yes, it’s a he) spend the whole evening picking his teeth with his not-so-clean fingernails and then flicking his treasure into the thick fibers of the shag carpeted floor when he thinks no one is looking—but, of course, everyone is looking.

If the panic attack were a lover, he’d be the type that struggles to unclasp your bra. He’d leave his socks on while you’re having sex. He’d still refer to sex as “doing it.” He’d be 43 and aspire to work as a CPA. Right now, he doesn’t work because reasons. You don’t want to hold his hand in public—or in private. It’s all very disappointing for the last panic attack of June.

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If this panic attack was a bird, it’d be a penguin. You’d spend years saving money for a terribly cold, vomit-filled boat journey to the southern reaches of the earth only to meet thousands of disgusting penguins covered in the fetid feces of their neighbors and their neighbors’ neighbors and the neighbors that came before them. (Penguins are family-oriented in that they’re still mucking about in their great-grandfather’s crap.)

This smell greets you, multiplied by a magnitude of 20, your stomach churns, and you wonder why you spent thousands of dollars to see a bird that can’t even fly. But at least the glaciers are nice. It’s not all bad—not at all bad for the last panic attack of June.

If it were a color, it’d be white. What type of white, you ask? The type of white your apartment complex uses. The type of white that spot above your bed used to be before your we’re-not-labeling-it boyfriend tried to install a bookshelf and instead rendered the area cracked and balding.

If this panic attack were a prostitute, it’d be a Canadian prostitute—you know why.

If it wasn’t a moldy apple pie, it’d be a hairless cat. If it wasn’t your favorite baseball team losing the world series on a technicality in the bottom of the ninth, I’m pretty sure it’d be finding out your mother was right—about what? Oh, literally anything.

This panic attack is so blah there’s really nothing to say about it, well, at least nothing interesting. Except that it’s the last panic attack of June.

 Photo Credit: DDT

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