Ok, y’all. I think I have solved the mystery of the Emo. Now, at times, while I am explaining this, you’re going to think my head is up my ass. I understand, because what other explanation could there be, right? But you have to trust me. I think I’ve solved what can be most kindly described as a sociological puzzle.
This evening the boy came to me asking for a SpongeBob band-aid. I asked to see his boo-boo. He started looking for one and came up empty. He really just wanted some SpongeBob bling and didn’t give a crap if he had the requisite boo-boo or not.
So I told him that he could have a band-aid when he had a boo-boo. I immediately saw a calculating look enter his eyes and that’s when it hit me.
It’s these fucking character band-aids. They are responsible for a generation of cutters.
It starts in toddlerhood. A little Dora, some Blue’s Clues, an Elmo here and there, and then they’re a little older and the drug of choice is The Incredibles or Toy Story or Cars.
By the time they’s 11 or 12, the die is cast. They no longer want the bling, but they can’t stop the behavior that causes band-aids.
Then they start down that rocky road of black nail polish, too much eye liner, streaked hair, and a texting habit that will eventually lead to arthritis. And that’s just the boys.
So I’m heading this kid off at the pass. He got his SpongeBob band-aid. No boo-boo required.
(For those who are wondering why my son is wearing some kind of fucked up orange lipstick applied in a somewhat haphazard manner, it was Cheetos. That’s right, I give him band-aids he doesn’t need and Cheetos. What’s next? Crack!?)
(See? No boo-boo. The little weirdo.)