Remember the "punk voice" piece?

Yeah, because here is mine.

I consider myself to be a fairly laid back person. That said, it isn’t often that something genuinely pisses me off, and I find it difficult to get worked up into a frenzy of colorful swearing. I mean, I’m listening to fucking “Moon River” from Breakfast at Tiffany’s-- followed by Kraftwerk’s “Computer Love.” People like me tend to shrug things off, or roll with the punches, to borrow a crazily overused colloquialism.
Some people might deem this to be fairly unhealthy, and claim that it is vital to the mental well being of humans to let off steam now and again, or to have something that they are passionately against, because well, that’s what makes life exciting!
These people are full of shit. There is nothing wrong with being laid back enough that when one is presented with the assignment to write a one to two page essay in a “punk voice” (translation: pissed off about something. One might even say, “giving the finger” to something), one has a tremendously difficult time thinking of anything that would merit a page and a half of impassioned writing, filled with all the neatest cuss words and vulgarities that the author can think to put on the page.
Okay, so the closest I get to punk is wearing combat boots, or listening to old school punk music while I’m driving home from church choir rehearsal in my mother’s mini-van. I mean, sure, I get references to punk music, I’ve seen Sid and Nancy (which absofuckinglutely sucked, by the way), and I had a punk phase when I was fourteen in which I wore a studded bracelet or two, funny colored fishnets over ripped up black tights, and liked Good Charlotte and The Donnas. In fact, in writing this assignment, I’m even pussying out on being punk.
Perhaps- and this is just a hypothesis here, indicated by my usage of the word “perhaps”- perhaps the shit that I am angry about isn’t punk. It’s not society, it’s not the government, and while sure, I think that those things suck, they don’t tend to get me worked up into a fit of speech bubbles filled with characters that one can only type using the shift key and some numbers. My everyday vocabulary is already punctuated with such interjections; the words “fuck,” “shit,” and “motherfucking” are just not terribly special anymore. Maybe the shit I’m angry about isn’t punk, it’s just painful. It could be just another sob story about how I hate going home. Maybe I’m sick and tired of giving in to the urge to hang up on my mother, or seeing how much my dad worries about money, and maybe I’m sick of having two of every major holiday.
My theory is that I’m laid back because damn, it’s been a decent defense mechanism thus far. I’m just not an aggressive person. I manage to like pretty much everyone that I meet, which is clearly not “xXHARDXCOREXx” and you should see the music I listen to. My last.fm site has my top artists as the Beatles, Sage Francis, The Decemberists and the cast of Candide; not much farther down is the Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical. Oh yeah, I’m hardXcore. X x.
My life is too comfortable to be really truly angry about anything. The biggest problem that I personally have right now, is that I have an assload and a half of work that I should be doing, and I woke up to check my syllabus for German this morning to discover that I have a test (ein Prüfung, if you will, and I’m not even sure that’s right). Maybe I should just resign myself to being punk about how arbitrary the gender assignments in German are.