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wHy
i h8 nU mEtAl tEenZ (bY mIsS aMp)
Thank fuck I'm not a teenager. Were I a teenager, I would have to look at
other teenagers, something I prefer not to do. Teenagers sport tiny gold
earrings and wear tracksuits. Their hair is always blonde, and they have
greasy ponytails and fringes thick with Sun-Inned highlights.
Teenagers have blackheads on their lips, which pucker and pout as they dispense
teen wisdom laced with idiosyncratic idioms: trapping, chavs, kappa slappers,
pikeys.
I'm supposed to be jealous of teenagers. Even the esteemed
editor of this magazine* expressed his disappointment at my yearage. 'What
are you, like, 19?' he asked me down the phone, and luckily the handset
pressed against my lips prevented me from making my scowl audible.
Teenagers don't make fanzines about bizarre menstrual devices and learning
to pee standing up, darling. Teenagers make fanzines about hating themselves,
about the size of their arses, the length of their self-inflicted scars;
about being in thrall to ten-years-ago riot grrls and Feminism with a
capital Feh. Yawn-o-frickin-rama, fuckerz. Been there, done that: up the
ass, sideways, and backwards with a lipstick ring drawn around the orifice.
But thoughtless, mainstream high-school horndogz and lumpen, angst-ridden
suburban teenzine editrixes aside, there is one group of teens for whom
special disdain should be reserved. It is for these teens that one should
rehearse the sneer of one's upper lip, flexing and stretching till a curl
of Billy Idol proportions is acquired.
It is for these teens that one must practice cutting one's eyes, folding
one's lids so closely and hatefully together that one gazes through a
spidermesh of intertwined lashes. It is for these teens that one must
learn to kiss one's teeth inna South London stylee, sucking saliva harshly
and juicily through the molars so that those in close proximity are in
no doubt as to the levels of your disdain. Nu Metal Teens.
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