Feelin' Massachusetts is a mistake.

There I was, tall, light haired, in a kelly-green coat, a full black taffeta skirt. We passed through the Common to the Public Garden. The lights made the city bright with a strange, artificial dawn. We stopped on the stone bridge and leaned against the cold green metal railing. In the pond, the lights were reflected against the feathery dark of the weeping willows. The empty swan boats drifted idly to and fro on the black glass of the water, and yellow leaves were strewn over the surface like confetti on a marble top after a party. I stood there, complete in myself: whole, we talked, and I said what I thought.

The Journals of Sylvia Plath.

Speaking of mocking, today I was that girl. You know, the one reading Plath’s journals in Boston Common, retracing her steps.