Schizo Summer 2026

While it seems people in NYC have agreed this summer is one of camaraderie and meant to be spent enjoying sports or the weather with their community, I have embarked on the lonely and ephemeral season here on dubbed Schizo Summer.

Schizo Summer is me in my dark apartment on a Saturday night. I sit in the makeshift living room and drink so much I start to cry. I’ll smoke cigarettes inside knowing full well two of my grandparents died of lung cancer before hitting 70. How one of my earliest memories is my grandmother dying in her foyer lying on a rented hospita l bed while still clutching at her Marlboro Golds. Sometimes I’ll reach into my purse of drugs I didn’t pay for and do as many lines as it takes to hallucinate at the edges of my vision. If I look straight ahead and if I don’t tempt into my peripherals I’ll see dancers in the room. All of the sudden I’ll be lying in my bath only to realize I’m about to drown. I get up and drip into the mirror hoping to see the ghosts that I know live with me coming to say hello. They haven’t shown up yet.

To what end?

It is not a productive thing to trap yourself indoors while you can hear the bass from the club next door. Maybe I’ve written a little more than I would have but I’m unconvinced that any of it has been good or worthwhile.

It’s to feed a newfound masochism wherein I force myself inside to prove that, for the first time, I’m capable of it. Perhaps this is all so that when people look back on the summer of 2026 with fondness I can differentiate myself by remembering cold walls and sitting in silence. So I can lament while they grin.

If anyone would like to join they’re more than welcome to participate in Schizo Summer with the only stipulation that they never tell me about it or try to come over.