My tenth grade girlfriend burnt my blink-182 t-shirt.
This, of course, sounds patently ridiculous. Not only is the idea of a broken-hearted 16-year-old setting an ex’s clothing aflame beyond cliché, it’s also just hard to imagine anyone deciding on a goofy-rabbitted blink-182 shirt, of all merchandise, to set fire to, even in effigy. Of all the angsty bands I have and continue to listen to, blink – particularly pre-self-titled blink – seems an ill-advised avatar. After all, who takes blink-182, a band that became unthinkably popular while refusing to take themselves as such, that seriously?
As it turns out, I do.
Blake Murphy Sports Writing 