January 11, 2003

RANT #168: Society & Politics
Summary: A rant about Emo that has a bunch of paragraphs.
Full Text:

Dear Emo,

As someone who sniffles when I see rainbows and baby ducks, I suppose I would hardly seem qualified to complain about your particular brand of music. However, lack of knowledge or restraint has never stopped dedicated ranters before. It sure as hell won't stop me. Plus, I believe that certain things must be said, and I say them with all fairness and empathy.

Emo, I hate you.
I hate you with the fiery passion of a million suns.

Let me first say that I am sick of you whining about your ex-girlfriends. The very fact that you have ex-girlfriends suggests that you have experienced much more play than the average male. Let me also inform you that when you remark that lovers should be chained together and thrown into a fire with their songs and letters and left there to burn, left there to burn, my first reaction is not to grab a kleenex but to forcibly eject my stomach contents into the neckhole of your soft fuzzy sweater.

It's clouded, you say, and so is my head. Check the weather reports, I humbly suggest, because the forecast calls for a SEVERE ASSKICKING.

Whew. Sorry. I'm getting all emotional.

You're also prone to unnecessary repetition. When you say that you don't recall much between you and me, and that it is all grey and cloudy, and that this tragedy plays itself over again in your mind, and you exclaim, what's my line, where are the cue cards, I find myself coming up with some lines I could feed you that are so acrid they could de-hair cats. But that's just me. Don't let me get between you and your ex-girlfriend. Your personality did that just fine.

I don't mean to be so cruel. I'm as sick of of bands with names like Staind and Disturbd and Hurtd as you are. Hell, at least you've passed grade one spelling. What I'm asking is that you graduate beyond grade eight letter-passing, and whining, and mournful self-gratification in a dark room while composing sad music in your head to the sound of the pitter-patter of the lonely raindrops on your cracked windowpane. Why do you think God created Depeche Mode? The  void has been filled.

I will conclude by saying that yes, technically, freedom of speech is still lawful. And I've consorted with my fair share of hideously awful genres in the past. But again, why should this stop me from getting up on my little soapbox and belting out my opinions? I think you said it best when you pointed out: I hope that you're happy, you really deserve it, this will be best for us both in the end, but your taste still lingers on my lips like I just placed them upon yours and I starve for you. So this is odd, the painful realization that all has gone wrong. And nobody cares at all, and nobody cares at all. And the plaster dented from your fist in the hall where you had your first kiss reminds you that the memories will fade.

Hoping those painful memories fade soon!

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