Cape Cod

30 Jul

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Cape Cod was a dream.  A very lovely, exactly-suited-for-me dream full of hydrangeas and cottages and a vague sense of “the rich kids of Instagram.”

There were house parties in Chatham where the boys wore boat shoes and people acted like they were in the pilot of The O.C.  There were sailboats and homemade Oreo cheesecakes and absurd flea market purchases.

There were card games with shells and 2:00 AM Nintendo 64 tournaments and Power Rangers pilots, because we are children of the 90s, after all.

There was the moment I asked everyone to turn away so I could swallow my first oyster.

And then there was the night I arrived, when we put on our swimsuits and sat in the still, warm water, drinks in hand, Katy Perry blasting, and watched as the sun grew heavy and time didn’t matter.

Dreamtown Central.

Cape Cod, you haven’t seen the last of me.

I mean that in the creepiest Cher way possible.

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