"Cindy, what are you doing?" I asked my classmate as she was frantically carving something into her plastic pencil case. She blew on it a few times, then handed it to me proudly.
PUNK'S NOT DEAD
"What's this supposed to mean?" I asked, not sure if our exchange student from Denmark knew exactly what she was exclaiming to the world. " I'm not stupid! You know what it means!" she said fiercely, grabbing the case and proceeded to etch an Anarchy sign on the other side. "So what you protesting? Who's oppressing you?" I said, leaning on her desk. "The government, man! They're fucking everywhere!" I laughed as she scowled at me. "What's so fucking funny, fascist?!" she growled. "Good luck with your rebellion, girl." I replied as I left the room, wondering how long we'd last if Punk actually became a system in society.
I walked into Cindy the other day. She's sporting a tattoo on her arm now ("NOFX" in huge letters) and has a few piercings in her lip. "How's life?" I asked her, casually. She jumped, snapping out her own little universe. "Punk's still not Dead" she said, smiling. I invited her to coffee, she declined. "My boyfriend's coming to pick me up in a second. I think you should meet him, he'd like you" I looked at her, noticing that her hair was a dark tint of blue in the sun. "Really?" I replied.
I ended talking to Paul for three hours, five pints of beer each had made the conversation flow quickly from our minds, making us oblivious to the other people in the bar. He set up the pool table for the seventh time as he explained how he'd never read an Anarchist's Manifesto that didn't contain explicitly that beer would be free. As we parted ways that night, Cindy made me promise to keep in touch, so we swapped numbers and I headed off to the bus stop.
Why those three words stuck in my mind for all these years, I don't know. They mean nothing to me. But to see a whole lifestyle change in a few years like that gives one hope. If Punk's not dead, imagine what else just needs to be carved into plastic once in awhile?