For New England - by charlie squire - evil female

The smell of low tide, a Dunkin Donuts hashbrown, a Sox hat in every Goodwill.

Jeremy Miranda I was born in Massachusetts (Beverly, right by Gloucester). I tried to kill myself in Vermont (Lake Champlain, Virginia Woolf). My father spoke his last words to me in Maine (fifteen years old, “you can be a real cunt sometimes”) and I have spent hours getting to New Hampshire for not one but two different lovers (to remain unnamed). I faked orgasms with balding twenty-somethings in Boston and taught arts and crafts to wealthy Manhattan children in log cabins at sleepaway camp. I grew up in the woods and the middle of nowhere and the historic epicenter of arts and culture in…

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