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and no matter how many knobs or dials I smash or twist, I can never seem to escape her. But listening isn’t the worst part. Once those pop-punk yodels fill my head I go numb or even cry—a sweet release. No, the worst part is the waiting, the lack, the crackle as my car stereo scans for her; I brace and wonder when I’ll hear her whine again about how it’s complicated like I don’t know that already. I loved her before she was famous and I don’t say that to sound cool. I mean I loved her. We used to steal blue-flavored Gatorade from the 7-Eleven on the corner and make-out in the park, stained tongues eager and sloppy. Now she acts like Sk8er Boi was just a story she made up, like we didn’t learn together how to smudge our eyeliner, bleach our hair, do kick-flips. How to kiss soft and slow.