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Opinion: I’m Not a Joy Division Fan These Are Stretch Marks

Ugh, this happens everytime I go to the beach. I’m sitting there relaxing, finally exhaling the stress of my 9-to-5, and then, boom! Like clockwork, some pasty, tired-looking hipster appears from under the boardwalk, points at my stomach area, and says something like, “yeah man, the emergence of artists rebelling against the orthodoxy of punk sort of made post-punk the true punks, you know? Hey, can I bum a cig?” And like every time that came before it, I cut him off and explain that while my stomach may have a lot of jagged lines that resemble the “Unknown Pleasures” cover art, I do not give the smallest fuck about Joy Division. These are stretch marks from a baby who will be exclusively listening to hair metal.

I can’t stand these hipsters, grilling me with their music trivia nonsense. I listen to Top 40, only. My favorite band is Imagine Dragons. Anything I know about Joy Division I leaned against my goddam will.

At 9 months pregnant, I am a very stressed individual! But anything relaxing usually involves taking off my shirt. Like, I was getting a massage the other day and when I took my shirt off and turned back around, there’s that pasty guy again! Telling me, “yeah so like, me and some of the guys are starting a New Order cover band, but making it more shoe gazey?” Ahh!

If I’m being honest, my stretch marks may have caused me immense, emotional anguish but I wear my scars like the art they are. There’s a romanticism about the darkness I feel. In this gloom and doom I can explore the true depths of my soul.

Hey, can I bum a cig?