I’ve only ever known one true punk. High school. Freshman year. Gym class. The first few weeks as a freshman were a bouquet of powerful hormones and hypnotic memories, a fever dream. I liked gym class the most because it resembled the cinematic standards of the high school experience—gym shorts, body odor, cool girls sat on the bleachers, ornery wrestling coaches with whistles —and it was my first anthropological study of upperclassmen. I mostly kept to myself. Hung out with my assigned social circle. Tried not to embarrass myself in front of the basketball players.
Horror Week 2: Punk
Horror Week 2: Punk
Horror Week 2: Punk
I’ve only ever known one true punk. High school. Freshman year. Gym class. The first few weeks as a freshman were a bouquet of powerful hormones and hypnotic memories, a fever dream. I liked gym class the most because it resembled the cinematic standards of the high school experience—gym shorts, body odor, cool girls sat on the bleachers, ornery wrestling coaches with whistles —and it was my first anthropological study of upperclassmen. I mostly kept to myself. Hung out with my assigned social circle. Tried not to embarrass myself in front of the basketball players.