Wherein I consider the life of an emo
I roll out of bed, moaning loudly as my feet slip on the black satin sheets and I land with a loud thunk on my bedroom floor. The world is pain. I grimace as blinding natural light floods in through a tiny slit between the black curtains that has opened over night. I shuffle over the black towel on the floor (my mom wouldn’t pay up to have the annoyingly bright beige carpet replaced) and wearily pull the curtains tightly shut.
I drag myself up into my comfy black leather chair – better to blunt the pain of the physical senses with – and reach for my iPod. My stupid mom got me a white Nano, so I was forced to color it in black using a wide-tipped Sharpie. The world is pain. I quickly browse through my music and put on some “AMy Chemical Romance”. It should be just “My Chemical Romance”, but then I would have to browse half way down the stupid playlist just to find it, so I added an A in front of the artist’s name.
I grasp at the black headphones and sloppily place them over my head, letting the emotional sounds of my favorite band pour slowly into my soul. They’re the only thing worth a damn on this world. Even my so-called friends are losers just like me, and barely worth hanging out with. The world is pain. I swat at my desk lamp, turning on the blindingly bright red light. My visage reflects back at me from the mirror. I stare it at with my two black beady eyes and ruffle my feathers.
Look, I can’t help it; every time someone mentions “emo”, I think “emu”. Wouldn’t you be depressed all the time too if you were a flightless bird?
