The end of my generation, part 2: Emo

So I'm back again, this time with part two (of this ever growing series.. I've got at least two more good ones, and ideas swelling) of The end of my generation. If you wonder what the hell I'm talking about, the introduction and part one is right here. Read that first if you haven't yet.

Moving on. . . part two.

Emo: Your life has been an absolute hell, even though it's been exactly the same as everyone elses - the only difference is that you cracked under the minimal pressure. Apparently you thought High School would be sunshine and rainbows and everyone would be hugging, and when someone made fun of you, you cried for hours.

You believe you're a loner, and you are, but only because you've made yourself one. The cuccoon of your own stupidity has blocked oxygen from your brain, keeping you from making rational decisions, specifically with the clothing selection. In order to be different from everyone else, you dress like you showered in your jeans and then rode them in the dryer, because they're now so tight any kind of movement rips them - which would usually be bad, but apparently in your "unique" style, you thought it would be cool. You wear a tie with a t-shirt or a really shitty button-up shirt - you claim it's a statement about the 9-5 workingman, but the truth is you just think people will talk to you if you wear it.

A tragic hair searing accident made your hair ridiculously uneven, some of it covering your eyes - but again, it's different and totally not retarded, so you leave it. You manage to bruise your face by walking into things because your depth perception is off, but you make up another lie that supports your made-up "my life is hell" story.

You claim to be your own person, but deep down you know damn well that you look like a dumbass, and that the attention you get is why you do it. If nobody noticed you dressing like such, you'd change. But you're unique, cause you dress just as stupidly as everyone else around you.

With the public eye spurning you, you turn to the only other viable place to get attention - the internet. You take your made-up life online, and are pleased to find other idiots giving you sympathy and encouraging you. You call them "friends", but there's no fucking way you'd ever meet them. You're now popular in your cyber-world, but it's not enough for you.

So you start posting shitty poems to get more attention when your readership starts to dip - poems you claimed were "just for you". Whenever you receive ANY criticism whatsoever, you launch of barrage of self-defence tactics, which range from calling them 'mean' to telling them 'they don't understand me'.

You pretend you're educated on actual issues, like politics or environmentalism, but you know jackshit. Whenever you get into an argument over it, you get caught in your traps and resort to your usual fallback - they're mean or just don't get you.

Time goes on, and you continue to have hairstyle and warddrobe malfunctions, while desparately trying to stay in the attention circle. You'll take anything to try and tell people smarter than you your opinion, but when it's to no avail, you start dabbling in lighter drugs for artistic inspiration, which you believe you have talent in. You don't.

Your emotional front starts to crumble when people stop giving a shit about anything you say or do. You begin to cave to the "popular" things, like smoking and drinking and drugs, all the while criticizing the people that do it, making you a delicious hypocrite, although you'd claim otherwise.

You end up in college or University for something in the arts, as you continue to chase the dream that someone will notice your black-hole of talent. You tell yourself and anyone that'll listen that you're a shy person that loves humanity and you don't like corporations, but you'd sell out instantly if anyone ever offered you something.... anything, really.

You stumble through college acting the same way you did in high school, proving to the world that you've maxed out intellectually when you were about 17. Now in your early 20s, you find out that your art that nobody gets isn't marketable, nor is your shitty poems. You work in some retail job for years, during this time you manage to meet a girl that's so pale your surprised she doesn't vaporize when the sun hits her skin. She's just as fucked up in the head as you are, and she likes it that you're a tool/emotional.

You fall head over heels for her, only because she's the only one that'll listen to your unending complaining. This is the happiest you'll ever be, and after copulating and a near-pregnancy, she realizes what a deadbeat you are and leaves you for someone with a real future.

You wonder why your BA in Art History can't land you a job - but to counter the depression of being in a dead-end job and now without a girlfriend, you listen to bad music from angry middle class teens that you totally get. However, you listen to it way too much and it starts to melt your brain, making you more depressed.

The internet once again becomes your haven, where you even more desparately try to get attention, this time by taking a razorblade to your forearms and then posting pictures of it. People ask you 'what's wrong?' and you make an even more elaborate lie about how you were beaten as a child and that nobody understood you and you were made fun of etc etc etc, and how you'd tried to commit suicide once but couldn't do it. The people listening act like they're concerned, but they wouldn't even remember your name if you died. You know this, but pretend they care.

You spend years in your parent's basement on the computer talking to your 65,000 myspace friends, while your few real friends have realized how much of an idiot they were to dress like a 1980's backup dancer for Pat Benetar. After your internet-friends refuse to meet you, you spiral down into an emo chatroom, where people are talking about suicide. After a brief conversation with a few, your last-ditch for attention reaches the extreme.

Trying to make friends, you slit your wrists. You didn't expect it'd hurt as much, and the blood spray scares you. You realize immediately what a bad idea this was and how you don't actually want to die, but apparently a band-aid won't stop the bleeding. You run around the basement trying to wrap the wrist in something, the blood spraying all over the walls.

You get light-headed, which only makes you more desparate. You call for help upstairs, but remember your parents are out for the weekend. You try and call the police, but with minimal bloodflow to your hands, you can't pick up the phone and dial.

You manage after a few minutes to dial 9-1. Alas though, you've lost too much blood, and before you can hit the last button you slip into a coma.

Your last thoughts are "maybe someone will give me a big funeral". You bleed to death days before anyone finds your badly-dressed corpse, and instead of a big funeral, they sell your body to pig farmers, making that the most useful you've ever been to society.

Or: Moments before slitting your wrist, you realize that how pathetic you are if this is what you're going to do for attention. You back away from the computer, look at your life, and vow to do something with it - you cut your hair in the bathroom, change into actual clothes, and hurry to the front door - you've got a new lease on life, and you scream happily as you burst outside.

In your glee, you skip out into the street without looking first. A city bus plows into you, killing you not even 20 feet from your front door, which you left unlocked. People loot your home as you lie in the middle of the road.

Your last thoughts are of that girl who's name you forget when you were 14, the one that made you go Emo in the first place. With only yourself to blame for what's happened in your life, you bitch up again and blame her.

Up Next: Part 3, Religious Nutbag

-Mark