By the time I finish burning this CD at home on a Friday night I will lose my courage to give this to you, but itís the thought that counts.
Hereís your fix of pop punk, and a flashback of my childhood: Travis Barker was my hero, Green Day a religion, NOFX politics. This playlist is a reminiscence of the baggy pants, studded belts, Converse All-Stars. Donít think Iíd forget the last album we split; I listen to MxPx when youíre gone. Hereís to 1998 through 2002, I bleached my hair and dyed yours too; 13 never felt so good. Is your lip still scarred from the safety pins? Black nail polish still chipped on purpose? I will be the first to admit I still use all my hair gel. Middle school, we wrote poetry in cemeteries and wished for the dead to haunt us; instead we got Chex Mix and pickles thrown in our direction. Wrong lunch table, wrong crowd, we never belonged and we liked it that way, or at least we pretended to. Parents, homework, girls, and I wouldnít be completely off if I said theyíre still our biggest enemies. Save me with your cheesy lyrics and power chords, Iím dying for an escape from being cool. I hate indie rock and acoustic guitar, bearded vocalists who wear horn-rimmed glasses and brown t-shirts. This playlist is to snorting Pixi Stix and swallowing spiders for the small sum or fortune of five bucks, to skateboards and wallet chains, Sharpie tattoos and the holes in our shoes. Never in 17 years did I ever think Iíd want to go back.