At nineteen, I gave in.
I'd been denying it for years. I wasn't one of them. One of those kids. They were weird. They were trashy and obsessive and often clad in too much neon.
But the skinny jeans began to invade my wardrobe. The American Apparel hoodies started to spawn and multiply in my closet. I started getting into arguments with people about CDs versus downloads, about noise canceling headphones versus earbuds. I stood outside clubs for hours in freezing weather just to get a little bit closer to the stage. I had to get a job to support my music habit.
And then in late September I stood upstairs at the Middle East, black X's on my hands and digital camera shoved in my back pocket. Jukebox the Ghost had just finished an amazing set and I waited alone in the back for the next band to come on stage. A giant in a track jacket stepped in front of me, completely blocking my view. As I shifted around to try and get a better view, his girlfriend tugged on his sleeve.
"You're blocking her view," she said, pointing in my direction. The man turned, glanced at me quickly, and turned back to his girlfriend.
"That's okay," he replied. "It's just a scene kid."
Oh. Well, alright then.
So I bought a pair of hot pink fake glasses and dove into the Boston music scene.