The band is the emblem of the dumb, bratty, California pop-punk that would inform my later teen years and future ex-boyfriends. Their angst, never-ending. Their genitals, blurred. Their tattoos, making me feel all the indescribable feels. Three grown-ass men writing jagged anthems about boners informed my adolescence. As I’m writing this, the best-case scenario is that Donald Trump will be runner-up for POTUS. A flood of assholes in South Carolina care which bathroom I use, and people are getting more jail time for marijuana possession than rape. When I’m scared and anxious about what the world has become, I try to remember that there was a time when my biggest worry was which two fingernails Carson Daily painted black, and what time Mark Hoppus’ pixelated junk would jog across the TRL countdown. The memories of those simpler times are why a 27-year-old can still like Blink-182. BRI BREY Read the rest of our story on Blink-182.