How Punk Am I?

Each day, I see some wannabe punks donning oversized, earth-toned pants haphazardly ripped at the bottom, a black t-shirt with a lame, garage band logo scrawled across the front and a denim jacket, typically with a Dead Kennedys patch emblazoned somewhere on it. For these Sid Vicious lightweights, they like to show how punk they are with their silly little faux-hawks or bacteria-infested dreads. Seriously, at least Milli Vanilli took pride in their hair extensions. My point? Punk isn't what you wear or how you style your mop, but it's a lifestyle. As far as I'm concerned, once you try to adhere to some pre-conceived notion of punk, you've lost the entire point of punk.

So take a hard look at me. Forget that wimpy sugar-and-water hair glue. My hair is kept in place with a mixture of juices from chicken, rice, strawberries and pears. I'm so punk, I transcend three-chord arrangements and 4x4 timing. I'm a baby that blazes my own trail and I could really care less about all those other cry babies and image-obsessed toddlers who can't see the soother through the crib bars. For all those who refuse to wear pink or certain clothing styles because they fear they will be branded with some unwanted image, I say phewy. Bring on the girly clothes, headbands, elastics or closets packed with pink. So I ask you, how punk am I?