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300(ish) Words on Summer Ending
Unlike all of the pop stars soaked in aquamarine and cat-eyed girls, summer isn’t my favorite season. But it is the song that gets stuck in my head year-round.
Unlike all of the pop stars soaked in aquamarine and cat-eyed girls, summer isn’t my favorite season. But it is the song that gets stuck in my head year-round.
I’ve been sustained — and thrilled — by the presence of boutiques lately, a reliable physical structure and set of sensory experiences that make sense to me.
My arms and legs get burned through car windows, and my face looks like a perpetual Margaritaville patron.
This is a green countertop, and my orange-painted toes which rest on it are a part of me. My hands are capable of doing things.
I drink Red Bull and keep the tab, I drink Red Bull on my walks through my neighborhood.
Sonya is an archivist of these early-mid 2000s photos, saving thousands of them to her phone. "They are so raw, and they are so honest in a way," she explains.
As I get older, so does the internet. I buy a push-up bra and discover new avenues of life via Firefox. Yahoo Answers is my ugly chapel, group home, cool best friend.
The store’s infrastructure was celebrity, as demonstrated by heart-shaped mirrors, silver stars, a mall stage, your own personal assistants (employees), and body glitter. Fame used to look a certain way, and Drolet, with her Claire’s background, knew how to translate that for girls.
I’m walking around with legs shining like chubby, prickly disco balls in the Texas summer sun.