When My Chemical Romance reunited on Halloween 2019, I was sitting in front of this familiar old friend—my blog's composition box. Having had a very slight tip-off before the reveal began to unroll, my first instinct was to run here and to prepare to tell everyone the great news. But, eventually, I navigated away. I've been contemplating why I did it the past couple days, and I've come to the conclusion that it was because I wanted to live it this time, rather than race to record it immediately. My heart was racing like old times, my extremities were numb, I was tapping my foot restlessly and absolutely ignoring everything I ever learned about mindful breathing. Pure adrenaline. I was running on solely that, having not eaten nor drank since the night before. (I would go on not to eat or sleep for another day, but more on that later.) It physically hurt. But it was amazing, because what we'd all hoped for for the past six years was actually about to happen. And...
Somewhere along music’s evolutionary path, punk found its way into the hands of a mad chemist who replaced its piss and vinegar with teardrops. There born was the Frankenstein that is emo. What have we done to him along the way?
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I hope people grow out of this bullshit soon enough.