Close your eyes and think of the word “summer.” What comes to mind?

Is it long days at the beach, a drink in one hand and a book in the other, letting the sun fall on your face and the waves tickle your toes? Two weeks of vacation in some remote destination, piling up memories to keep yourself warm through the rest of the year? The endless freedom you remember in those July and August weeks of childhood, set loose from the confines of the classroom? Hot dogs and ice cream and roller coasters and ballgames? John Travolta’s falsetto at the end of “Summer Love”?

Well, I have bad news for you, my friend. You are yet another victim of the summer industrial complex, that travel industry-concocted collection of lies designed to convince you that June, July, and August are the three best months of the year.

The beach? That sun will literally kill you. Vacation? Just don’t look up how much plane tickets cost, and don’t even think of leaving the country with the way the dollar is dropping. Freedom? Unless you are an actual child, a schoolteacher, or an NBA player, you’re going to spend most of your time in summer working as hard as you do the rest of the year.

Hot dogs are honestly the worst way to eat meat. Your ice cream is already ice soup. Roller coasters kill an average of four people per year (you can look it up). If you want to drink beer, you don’t need to sit through a baseball game while doing it. Grease is fine, but its success led to John Travolta one day being allowed to make Battlefield Earth, a film so bad that as of this writing, it has a 3 percent rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

Summer is the triumph of hope over experience. Every Memorial Day weekend, we begin our summers full of expectation, sure that this will be the season we create the summer to remember. And every Labor Day weekend, we emerge, sweaty and mosquito-bitten, wondering what precisely happened over the past three months. Then next year we do it all over again, fruitlessly chasing that evanescent summer high — even though deep down inside, you know it’s probably going to be a disappointment, and secretly you’re counting the days until September. If you were able to control those hopes, you might be able to control that disappointment.

But don’t you dare air those feelings out loud. When I suggested this essay to my fellow Vox editors, they reacted as though I were about to commit a war crime on paper. Doesn’t everyone love summer? Isn’t summer the best? How dare you look askance at the gift that is the three months when our hemisphere happens to be titled toward the rays of our life-giving sun? What kind of monster are you?

As it turns out, I am precisely that kind of monster. So what follows is why this is our most overrated season — and........

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