Sarah Dessen Fucked Me

Thanks, Sarah. 

Gangly indie rock boyfriends in my mind and down my block, who knew more about the Mars Volta than anyone should with fuzzy speakers and trips to the Dennis Public Market to buy bags of Cape Cod Potato Chips (salt and vinegar). 

Why is this what I’m most comfortable writing about?

Stupid teenage experiences when I wore a jean jacket from Abercrombie with a Ramones patch because somehow the two canceled each other out. I told a friend I made in California that you don’t start with the Moldy Peaches and then move on to Modest Mouse, it’s the other way around. 

I smoked two cigarettes in a row in front of the Chatham Community Center during a Half Hearted Hero show where a person I’d grown up side-stepping on the bus read some of their poetry to a group of teens that could barely listen. They are a poet in New York, now pursuing their MFA at NYU, so I guess that was more fuel for the fire than I ever got. That night I laid in bed with the shameful knowledge that I would someday get throat cancer.

I will write about my past, my sniveling, stunted upbringing, for many pages and years and decades until I am actually able to see it and hold it in my hands like a construction paper snowflake all folded up then undone to see what patterns the holes made. If I want to relive my past so badly I might as well move back to the Cape and start selling mugs at the mall like my father before me, send my kids to DY because I hear the IB program is doing wonders for their academics. Not like in my day, kids, when everyone smoked weed in their cars at lunch then dropped out because the promise of a kiddie frosty at Wendy’s at one in the afternoon was more appealing.

All the oyster fishermen bow their heads and give thanks that Oyster Fest is over and done with so now they can drink in peace, watching the gray clouds roll in over Cahoon Hollow with Sublime on the stereo.


Richmond, VA

Nicki writes for Whurk Magazine, and daydreams in Jackson Ward. This is her woefully neglected blog: