Perhaps the Oak Ridge Boys said it best because nothing
\ngood\u2019s ever come from taking shots from men in Adidas.
\nTequila just ferments the brackish water from my blood
\nuntil my accent is nothing but a wet dream and I cannot
\nsay my mother didn\u2019t warn me about this. Didn\u2019t warn me
\nabout the gaggles of men flying South from Maine, New
\nHampshire; about their summer homes drowning in bolts
\nof silk azaleas; about their love of open tabs and open
\nseasons. They see denim, imagine me bent over a Farmer\u2019s
\nAlmanac, pose me alongside a Model 1912 shotgun until
\nmy knees lock, stay locked at a rest stop outside of Mobile.
\nMy name becomes nothing but folklore huffed between
\nthe traveling man\u2019s dirty mouth and the cigar smoke
\ncircling plays at a Patriots game, so I cut my blonde hair,
\nrifle through my mother\u2019s paint cans, fashion the severed
\nstrands into a brush. I write my name on blockades in black
\npaint, deface I59 overpasses\u2014become one of many\u00a0swamp
\nlegends used to deter young women from the highway.<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n