Freshman year, I used to listen to this album on my weird round portable CD player, and smoke cigarettes on my balcony, and look at the snow and the trees and just be very melancholy. Sometimes my freshman year boyfriend Jack was there, but most often it was just me, putting on a show of affected moodiness for myself.
I feel a small twinge of sadness and nostalgia that I won’t feel that way again without being painfully embarrassed at the whole construct of it all. I kind of wish I could; for some stupid reason I sometimes miss the drama and heightened emotion and the ease with which I felt things too much.
That’s what the Marina Keegan story makes me feel. It hits disturbingly close my past experience, and the fact that I can read it in a certain sanguine way is a little sad and also a huge relief.