Peggy Sue Messed Up by Susan Cossette

Maybe it was the crinolines,

which itched.

I don’t know.

Or the unrealistic expectations of perfection,

the ideal girl with her Aquanet curls.

I gave up.

Ditched the dance,

dumped the dude in the sharkskin suit

with his flask in the ass pocket,

whisky breath and mindless promises

and his cock

pressed against me during the cha-cha-cha.

I gave up.

Took my yellow Edsel,

golden chariot—

drove clear cross town

to the bluffs of Ithaka

overlooking the crashing sea,

the glittering lights

from the heights

of the world before me.

The prom queen is complete.

She is done.

You, Neptune, take my tiara.

I never wanted it.

I gave up.

Susan Cossette lives and writes in Minneapolis.  A Connecticut native, she once auditioned to be a crowd extra in the Nicole Kidman remake of The Stepford Wives but was rejected for lacking Stepfordosity (yes, that’s a good thing). 

Abbie Hoffman once came to speak to her undergraduate Students for Peace group to recruit idealistic liberals to travel to Nicaragua and pick tobacco (it was the 80s).  She was put on the wait list after asking if there were blow-dryer facilities at said tobacco farm. 

Voted “Most Likely to Work for K-Mart” by her college classmates, she has since worked in financial consulting, nonprofit, and adult films (not really).  Among her favorite memories are being excommunicated at the Vatican, riding the elevator to the 40th floor of the English Department of City U in Manhattan with Allen Ginsberg (“C’mon, Prof. G, I know you’re the voice of your generation, but I am late for class!”), and stumbling into William Burroughs wandering the halls. 

Be sure to ask her about the time she table-hopped to William F. Buckley Jr.’s table at a restaurant in front of her boss to nail a promotion for her first fundraising job. 

Buy her a few pinot grigios, and she’ll be your best friend for the night.