Like my outfit? I’m going for counterculture. By showing up to a punk rock concert in the least punk-aesthetic outfit possible, I’m the most punk person there.

These were wannabe elites who, once they popped on big-boy pants, would be infiltrating New York with their pretentiousness.

Despite the neck gills and greenish tint, the boy was gorgeous in that so-pretty-I’d-break-you kind of way.

You betcha. If I get to punch a manic, lanky jerk in the face, my night will be complete.” I gave her a fierce grin, still riding off the energy of the crowd.

I needed a distraction. A drink, a good tumble, anything—even this sure-to-be- trouble punk show.

The man had one of those dark, deep voices, the kind that made men listen and women shed their clothing.