my hair is every– no, it’s just wet

As I stood in the pouring rain, watching kids who seemed much younger than I embrace each other during Chris Carrabba’s cover of “Fake Plastic Trees,” I wondered about this seemingly sorrowful boy from Boca, and whether I, in my teenage angst all those years ago in the land of humidity and sun, would have benefited from hearing his pained, harmonious whine echo off the drooping palm trees.

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