Punk Tf - Tumblr Posts
Hey! Skinny white guy here wishing I was something more exciting!
I can sense you've been touched by the power of many transformations before, perhaps you are a master of transformation as well? Usually I'd be wary of using my power on those like you, in case it rebounded on me, but this request is too tempting to pass. Fine, I'll make you more interesting. You're sitting at home when to hear loud rock coming from outside. You open your front door to find yourself in a suburban neighborhood with a young South Asian man sitting on your doorstep with a speaker.
You want to ask him what he's doing here, but after noticing some angry glares from your neighbors, you think it's best to tell him to turn the music down first. "Turn it down?" He scoffs, "Man, you're the one always saying to turn it up. Listen to this!" He grabs you by the ear and pulls you closer to the speaker, as if standing across the street wouldn't still be a fine distance to hear the track. You curse when you feel a sharp pain where he grabbed your earlobe, but as the sound reverberates through your skull you find that pain turning to pleasure.
You nod your head to the booming drums as your ear lobes grow, craving more of that sound, then filling with large gauges. You tell him he's right, shit this good deserves to be played at max volume. "Hell yeah, especially when it speaks to taking down a broken system. That's what it's like for brown men in a white man's world." You're confused, is brown men referring to you too? You feel your body electrified like a guitar, your body warming up and your skin darkening in turn. Your hair stands on end until the blackened strands curl into a mess much like the man's, though you like your streaked red and sides shaved. You grin, looking at your fellow south asian with your deep brown eyes in newfound familiarity. You can't help but agree that there's nothing more punk than an immigrant.
After a few minutes of listening, your neighbor's annoyed stares become more obvious to both of you. "Man let's ditch these posers. Is it cool if I take this to Zayne's house?" You get excited, recognizing the name of another punk who lives a few blocks down. You agree, noting you're excited to listen there too. "What?" he chuckles, "no offense Man, but I don't think Zayne invites anyone your age to rock out." You wonder what he means by age before looking down at your arms, ever hairier than before. You think you're seeing things, adjusting your glasses out of habit without realizing you weren't wearing any before. Your facial scruff becoming a thick beard. Your clothes turning into a brown polo tucked into white khakis, baggy at first but stretched tighter as your time as a slim youth grows distant from years in a sedentary desk job. Your adjust your polo, trying to give your moobs more room while they jiggle along with your gut to the speaker. Despite your new clothes, you're still a punk in spirit, but a man needs to dress a certain way to work when he's got bills to pay.
you look at the man, now recognizing him as your son. You're a bit sad he keeps calling you "Man" instead of Dad, but a part of you swells with pride as a sign he's inherited some of the anti-authority spirit you grew up with. You sigh, allowing him to go rock out with his friend, but reminding him to come home before dinner and hoping you can jam with him after too.
"Ah kids" I say, stepping out of the house next to yours, looking like a typical suburban man "no matter how cool you are, they always choose their friends." You laugh deeply, clutching on to the bouncing polo that threatens to untuck from your khakis and reveal the furry carpet below. You say your son is probably just going through a rebellious phase. I laugh in kind, "With a rebel dad like you, I'm sure 'rebellious phase' is an understatement!" I'm unsure if you recognize me, or the request you made to me, but I am sure that this life is at the very least more exciting!