After what has been since about Christmas or so, a throroughly apathetic winter, the downy Midwest flakes have come back to cover our streets and and make us smile and think, yes, maybe the American dream hasn't been threatened into silence and inaction, maybe it's time to go sledding. Then your dad tells you that it's just lake effect and won't last. You try not to let this burst your warm-mittens and hot cocoa high, but then you realize how many times you have pulled yourself with the weak chains of optomism that you still don't have the heart to break, despite how abysmal the facts surrounding your life might look.
Sometimes I understand those emo boys. It is pretty clear that this age sucks, and a very small percentage of the people i have encountered have been really skilled with irony and unique self-expression. Despair, hopelessness, I get. Catchy songs from a cool new misfit band that everyone else likes, even having to have the t-shirt, I get. Apathy, check. Desire and confusion surrounding sex, check, check. But those pants? The ones that make their legs look like fabricky cigarrettes, the ones where swear you can see each sperm being crushed into oblivion, on the boys who are too depressed and/or sexually confused to eat, with frightening haircuts, which somehow make them irresistable, i totally don't get.