With the new “Hunger Games” film just a measly 3 1/2 months away, obsessive fans are already buzzing about what to call themselves.

After a nail-biting poll by the fans themselves, the “Tributes” narrowly surpassed the “Mockingjays,” claiming victory on a nickname that will be heard around the world come March 23, 2012.

My immediate reaction to this news — thank God, they didn’t go the Team Peeta vs. Team Gale route — soon took a different train of thought: Why are die-hard fans always compelled to put a label on their love?

The more I thought about this, the more I realized how much people crave identity — myself included. Though it sounds about as cliche as a Hallmark greeting card, people like to belong to something bigger than themselves. A sense of community, of unity and understanding, all point to the fact that you are not alone in your crazy adoration for all things “Star Trek” (I’m looking at you, Trekkies) or Barry Manilow (you too, Fanilows) or whatever.

Though I don’t get the appeal of dressing up like Spock or traveling the country to be entertained by “The Greatest Showman of Our Generation” according to Rolling Stone, I can’t blame the Trekkies or the Fanilows. In a strange way, I admire their pure passion and pride because it reminds me of why I call myself a Potterhead or a Cheesehead (12-0, just saying).

Yet there remain some fans, so ardent, devoted and frankly moronic, that I simply refuse to respect their cause. Along the way, these kind of extreme fans (i.e. screaming teenage girls) have become a source of mockery and even hatred for some, and for me — unbridled and unabashed terror. I avoid these shrilly, sobbing fan-girls at all costs (my cousin at Thanksgiving included). So ear-splitting is the screech of her cries during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, I can’t sit in the same room without flinching from fear (the memory of her screaming during the Jonas Brothers ’08 performance has left me permanently scarred).

Though my cousin’s enthusiasm for the former band of brothers was hard to stomach back then, nothing compares to the recent fans that have cropped up in our culture since.

Three types of fans that scare the pants off me:

1. Beliebers — girls anywhere between the ages of 4 and 20 who believe Justin Bieber is the closest thing to the second coming since Justin Timberlake.

2. Twihards — girls anywhere between the ages of 10 and 55 who go to sleep dreaming that Edward Cullen is real, only to wake up crying when they remember that he’s not.

3. Little Monsters — girls and boys alike who are cray-cray for Gaga.

While I’m sure these fans have some redeeming qualities tucked underneath all the tears and screaming, their theatricality makes it impossible for me to take them seriously long enough to dislodge the gunk they’re spewing in my ears to look and listen for them. Perhaps, one day many years from now, when the ol’ windpipe finally gives out, we’ll get our answer. Until then, I’ll keep my ears plugged.

_Emily is a junior in LAS._