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Stop counting on the camera
that hangs around your neck,
cause it will never remember what you choose to forget.




from an essay written by msrollingstone
"Our ‘oh so confessional’ CDs and safety pinned messenger bags an insignia to what we believe is the certain culture we belong to. And maybe they are, maybe they are the unifying signets of what we have become; or maybe it’s just a stupid, fucking label. Why we need this label at all baffles me as it serves only to differentiate us from our peers who are similarly defending the slander of their names in the stereotypical John Hughes movie terms such as slut, jock, tease, player, rebel etc. Sure, as the emo kids- our taste in pop culture is more refined and our appreciation of music clearly superior, but really what is the difference? We’re the same kids sporting variations of the same hair and wardrobe, associating with variations of the same people. Well…we’re almost the same kids.

We are the acoustic guitar playing; Bright Eyes listening to, sensitive souls who still keep diaries tucked under our mattresses. We wear our hair dark and over one eye; spend countless hours on our laptops updating our livejournals, friendster profiles, and myspace pictures. Our webcam is forever connected and to unplug it would be the disconnection and deterioration of our souls. We take painstakingly vain pictures of our tortured existence hidden under the hair dye and amateur photography. We capture awkward pictures from horribly positioned camera lenses because “it’s more scene that way.” We don’t even look at normal porn! It really is a SuicideGirls kind of world. We’ve seen the prerequisite list of movies including The Neverending Story and The Goonies, and have quotes from these movies posted in our AIM profiles. We are Lloyd Dobbler and [Insert Kevin Smith character here]. We write lyrics and poetry dripping with clichéd sentiments of love and devotion, and we are the masters of unrequited love. We are second generation castaways from the punk rock invasion of the 80’s which turned into the grunge movement of the early 90’s. The turn of the millennium didn’t, and is yet to offer an ultimate genre of music in which to pride itself; the music of 2004 is a melting pot on the backburner. A shitty McDonald’s variety of melting pot that we just succumb to out of convenience, not because we particularly enjoy it in the least.

We have become ‘emo,’ because we are so comfortable with the term. We don’t even know what it means, but if it’s so widespread in our social scene, it must count for something. A generation of media-obsessed scene kids, with eyes reflecting indie films and Mars Volta album covers, we probably picked it up in some elitist music magazine along the way. Too cool for the obvious Rolling Stone, we generally subscribe to AP and SPIN. Throw a couple of independent, small-scale ‘zines in there and you just stumbled across an emo kids dorm room mailbox. Andy Greenwald and Chuck Klosterman write sanctimonious stories about the confessional whining of so-called emo bands and make Chris Carabba out to be the reincarnation of Gandhi . This is where we discovered the word, and this is where it should be put to death. Come on guys, set the record straight. We may be sensitive, but we’re not pussies. We’re not all crying into our pillows every night because Johnny Rockstar is just a fantasy on the campus television network. Greenwald, you wrote a fucking book on the subject, throw us a bone here. But in the meantime- Don’t call me emo… I’d much rather be an indie fuck."






we don't say everything that we could
so that we can say later
oh, you misunderstood
i hold my cards up
close to my chest
i say what i have to
and i hold back the rest

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