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Sitting at the red light listening to Goodbye Graceful, my car suddenly reverted to my ’96 Acura Legend. My trademark platinum hair wears a headband with a bow, just like it did a decade ago. I looked down and was surprised to see today’s skinny jeans instead of my ’06 skull and crossbone leggings (yes, they also had neon hearts and lightning bolts) with a denim skirt. Still wearing the flats and a skull-covered sweater. Not a lot has changed, I guess. But for a moment, as I sat there, I was 16 again. I could smell the aroma of my old car: cigarettes, weed, and a faint hint of Vick’s Vapo Rub underneath it all. I was tempted to toss my bangs back in the typical old emo flip and blast my screamo music, not caring who it annoys. Then reality kicked in.

I may be almost 30, but sometimes I’m still 16.

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