I Listen to Too Much Midwest Emo Wenting Tang

Some of my earliest and most vividly hazy memories involve riding in the backseat of an old Honda Civic. The seats were a stripey velour that stuck to the backs of my legs when the air conditioning stopped working, and the back window was lined with faded stuffed animals. Desperate for attention, I was constantly begging my parents for the Tic Tacs and spearmint gum that always seemed to fill the glove compartment. Whether it was over the faint hum of the car radio or over our sticky kitchen table, they were always immersed in some mysterious, adult conversation. I remember arranging alphabet magnets on the refrigerator; babbling nonsense and trying to join in. I remember the ginger soup my mother used to make and the stickiness of leftover rice on my spoon. I remember my parents holding my hands and swinging, flanking me on either side like they would never let go.

Then everything changed, and it came almost as abruptly as the way dishes would shatter on the floor when my father got angry. The movie adaptation of my life went from a dreamy, sun-kissed Sofia Coppola film to a Dario Argento horror (minus the gorgeous coloring).

Okay, that is definitely a bit of a hyperbole-good job self, way to exemplify the sad teen stereotype!...