I'm Jell-O, Baby.

Disproportionate angst.
Torn jeans.
Notes in class.
Heavy guitars.

That's right-I am presently trapped within the grasp of mid-nineties alt rock. Particularly Pinkerton as a whole, but of course more specifically, El Scorcho. I'm not certain if it's the opening profanity or the misaligned harmonies in the chorus but I am yet again captivated. There's something so comforting and reassuring about being engrossed in the early high school soundtrack. Probably the fact that in reflection, the all-consuming tribulations of those distinct years are minute comparatively to life from there on out.

I recently sanctified our defiled porch and was rooting through my nearly forgotten possessions. I came across a journal I kept from 10th to 12th grade which I had then entitled The Diary of Nikki Walter-Frank. (yes, I lacked discretion even then) As I read the mundane details of my existence, my face became inflamed. In 11th grade, my primary preoccupation was the fact that my romantic life was forever scarred and invalid because my boyfriend of less than 6 months and I had broken up. Each chronicle was intermittently peppered with hopelessly shitty lyrics which I thought at the time were sheer, heartache genius. Once I had reached the end of that terrible dreck, I was so compelled by the poor structure and lack of substance that I decided to trash it. Farewell, downtrodden teen Nik. You are gone, and unfortunately, not forgotten.

Thank you, Rivers Cuomo, for inciting me to relive my petty, teenaged delusions once more. Those melodic reminders of yesteryear do it to me every time.