I Wish My Grass Were Emo So It Would Cut Itself

On Saturday night I went to a party in Wicker Park with some peeps. Compared to everyone there, we looked like a cross between a GAP ad and mom jeans. I was not wearing any eyeliner, my hair did not have any gel in it, and my straight-leg jeans fit appropriately. Seriously, didn't these kids get the memo that the emo look was kind of over? I wanted to take a washcloth to the face of everyone there--boys included--and buy everyone some properly fitting pants. The party sucked and I was still painfully sober by the time we left. On the train home we apparently got on the emo car--lucky us! In our car there were two large groups of emo kids who did not know each other but soon bonded--loudly-- over their tattoos, piercings, and the writings of Kurt Vonnegut. After a third emo group got on, complete with some skinny black-haired guy who looked like he was going to yak at any second, I looked at S and said "I have just fulfilled my emo quota for the decade."