Emokid opens the door and steps outside, squinting against the sunlight.
Damn this sunlight to hell, for it is sheer mockery in the face of my sorrow, he thinks, before sipping on his carton of Tang orange juice.
Slurping, all melancholy-like.
He heaves his backpack over his shoulder and stops to look at himself in a glass window.
My hair obstructs part of my peripheral view, and my eyeliner is uneven. They are like the metaphors of my life, for a part of me is always concealed behind a shroud of obscure gothic mystery and… well, I need to like, stop using Loreal eyeshadow, it’s like, so whatevrr.
Maybe today won’t be so bad, he thinks, maybe life- life will get better, if I just-
He trips on a shoe lace and falls into a puddle.
Woe unto me. Life is a series of tripping-on-shoe-lace-and-falling-into-puddle-s. Also my carefully combed side-hairpartline must be totally messed up now, omg.
Why, god? Why dost thou forsake me in such a way that you would make me trip and fall into a pool of dirty water that symbolizes the drowning of my very soul in despair?
Thou art so unbearably cruel.
He gets up and wipes a tear as he hears a laugh in the distance, quite clearly at him. I mean like, why else would anyone in the entire junction be laughing besides at him right?
Crude humans, they extract joy from the misery of others such as myself, thinks Emokid wistfully, whilst flipping his hair bangs in a depressed-Baywatch-lifeguard-like manner.
Why do I not have any friends? he mumbles to himself, as he drags his feet over the hot pavement.
Why do they always leave?
I mean, literally. Why do they always get up and rush out of the room when I start talking?
Is it because of the darkness of my spirit, the emotional depth of my being, the black aura of death that lingers around me- someone said it’s cuz my nipple rings and incessant whining make people uncomfortable, but lololol yea rite!!!11111
I cannot take the cruelty of life anymore, it is too much for my puny fourteen year old shoulders to bare, I must take my life tonight sobsob, he says to his lab partner in school.
He pauses, waiting for the freckled girl to gasp in horror and give him a hug that he would need to soothe the pain inside, and convince him that the roses of life are but-
Fell in a puddle again huh? Here, use my razor. It’s a little crummy from shaving my legs but it works.
Emokid stares off into the distance and resists the urge to facepalm because that’s not a very emo thing to do.
Instead he readjusts his hair bangs and whispers into the musty lab air the three letters that sum it up best, FML.
disclaimer @ emokids
all satire was made in jest, please do not attack me with razor/eyeliner pencil.