I would like to make it clear, though, that if I ever begin to descend to the point that I'm listening to soul-less emo crap; place No Remorse on the turntable, put it on 11, and slap me around with the album jacket until I come to my senses. If I'm too far gone for this intervention, I implore you to do the following:
Invite me to your house. I don't know, tell me you want to show me your new thick-framed glasses and whether or not I think it goes with the sleevless V-neck sweater. When I get to the door, lure me in by waving Promise Ring records at me and saying, "Come on, Soop! That's a good boy! Come on! Come here! Good Boy!" Maybe whistle and make clicking noise with you tongue. Clap your hands some. Once you've gotten me inside, you can pat me on the head, lead me out back and put me down; I've obviously lost the will to live.