While chatting to a pasty guy in skinny jeans and an attention-seeking hat I realised that my childhood memories had been perverted for the misery of a generation.
Some of my favourite bands like The Smiths and The Cure now meant more to ironically fashionable misfits than they ever did to me. This made me wonder if I wasn’t maybe a closet emo!
I mulled over this for a while, but then decided I wasn’t up for the job.
I’m not nearly committed enough to skateboard in a jean pant tight enough to make your arse turn blue.
And as much as I enjoyed ‘Nightmare Before Christmas’ I don’t think I’ve got the space in my flat for a Jack Skellington shrine, complete with plastic skulls and Tim Burton wig shelves.
At my age I don’t have the strength to maintain a constantly downturned mouth; and the receding hairline won’t allow the standard-requirement, face-obscuring fringe.
I must say I envy the ability to pour trendy scorn on our consumer-obsessed society while spending all your trust fund pocket money on overpriced, made-to-look-vintage t-shirts.
They’ve made my original copies of Eighties pop music cool, now I just need a tape-to-iPod converter.
And it’s good to know that no matter how sulky I am before my morning banana and coffee shake, I can grumpily be happy in the knowledge that apathy can still get you laid.
Just make sure you take off that shrunken jean pant before you get excited or you might hurt yourself.
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