My First and Last Word on Emos

I remember back when I first started this gallery. Deviantart was such a great thing back then—I didn’t understand leet-speak, I thought people were making spelling errors when they typed “wned” or “teh,” and I even still emailed my friends. And I didn’t know about all the emos. Deviantart is kind of like a social network site for emos. It’s like emo Facebook or something. Seriously, just try going to a random page on this goddamn website and I guarantee three out of five times you’ll find something emo. It’s probably the most pathetic fad I’ve ever witnessed. I mean, at least Goths listen to okay music every now and then. Fuck, most Goths have kind of a sense of humor about the whole thing nowadays. They have to—otherwise everybody will call them emos.
This bullshit needs to end. I am so goddamn sick of hearing poems about a hungry need for darkness, and inky black self-loathing, and reading short stories about impish little a-cup girls slitting their wrists in the snowy, moonlit forest. Why doesn’t someone ever write a poem on here about a fist fight or a filthy one-night-stand, or a short story about a poker game or a house fire? How about just anything that might fucking matter to someone other than yourself?
Possibly the worst thing about emos is that they ruin all kinds of nice little things for people like me—do you know how many things I’ve had to stop wearing because of emos? I used to have this neat black driving cap—now I can’t even wear it in public without feeling ashamed of myself. They got a whole lot of awesome music retconned as “emo forerunners,” too, like the Cure and the Smashing Pumpkins.
Actually, I take that back—the worst thing about emos is that they have cultivated this kind of disposable personality, this faux intellectualism. They all act like they care about art and music and the written word, but most of them couldn’t even fasten a few verses together for a decent limerick. And what happens when I tell people that I write? They look at me like I’m a fucking emo. I don’t even talk about it to people anymore. Normally it wouldn’t bother me for someone to call me a hippy, or a stoner, or a nerd, but at this point I’ll be goddamned if anyone calls me an emo to my face and doesn’t have to eat through a straw for a week.
To be honest, I couldn’t give a flying fuck what you wear, just stop being so embarrassingly pathetic. I feel like if we were invaded by an alien intelligence I would have to make up some kind of an excuse for you people. I highly recommend that you get into a couple fistfights, drink some grain alcohol, and smoke a few full-flavored cigarettes. Maybe visit and abattoir or a go see a boxing match. I’m talking to you, too girls. Quit being so melodramatic—be strong! Don’t just cry when your little emo boyfriend hurts your feelings--tell that dipshit to get a life and give back your fucking pants.
Make some real art. Say something. Imagine things that are bigger than yourself rather than focusing on your personal interpretations. That’s all I want, kids. Just some kind of sign that there’s an actual person in there.

P.S.
A Decent Limerick
There once was a happy young fool
Who chased all the girls at the school
He once smiled at me
With no teeth I could see
And said “A virgin can kick like a mule!”

Enjoy.