Upon wakling into my english class... I was branded 'emo' by a guy because I was wearing tight jeans, converses, and had longer hair. What came next was an assignment to write about what others saw you as... but from a synical point of veiw... THE OUTCOME... It is indeed a sad state of affairs today. I suppose this societal degradation first began when it became popular to search for one's inner cave. This movement emphasizes the quest for self knowledge and personal enlightenment, and promotes profound reflection on one's life. Unfortunately, this journey may hold an unwelcome surprise at the end of it for some. Between the deep breaths and the green tea, we find our inner cave is utterly devoid of any meaning, much less any interest. Worry, angst, shortness of breath ensue. What happens when we find we have no recognizable personality? What happens when we find that we are no longer the shining and unique individual our parents taught us to revere and cherish? What happens when we discover that our supposed individuality is a mere masquerade, and it becomes too painful to actually complete the process of self-exploration? What happens is emo. Emo is a natural defense mechanism in reaction to the above mentioned loss of meaning, manifested now on a widespread and socially acceptable level. While at first this phenomenon was relatively harmless, now there is a veritable I-tried-to-kill-myself-that-one-time-when-my-girlfriend-dumped-me-for-a-biker cult. Now, one would think that this self-effacing way of life would soon die out due to the constant verbal abuse of its members. However, this is not the case. There is much to be gained in this musically bankrupt clique. And do you know what this prize is, this prize that is worth the complete lack of intellectual credibility? Behold: it is Sex. 'Tis true, emo guys get the chicks. Scrawny guys in argyle sweaters who cry and croon vaguely off tune on stage for the whole world to see evoke pity, which more and more translates into a feeling of relation, which eventually degrades into vague attraction. This has created the now ubiquitous archetype of the "emo boy," with hair stylishly mussed, Woody Allen-esqe non-prescription glasses, tight jeans, and a thought bubble above his head imploring I have a teddy bear...fuck me now. The emo boy has invaded the music scene, timidly brandishing his notebook as his only source of protection. He is not ashamed of his lack of originality, or his nasal screech, or his penchant for Vans slip-on shoes. No, the emo boy revels in his ability to get in touch with his emotions, and parlay that into deeply meaningful songs full of clever lyrics such as "the road is never ending and neither is my love for you." But this is not music, this is not poetry, this is not even raw unbridled emotion. This is people filling their inner cave with self-pity, replacing personality with lime green cardigans and autographed guitars, and gaining brownie points for making a mockery of the human condition. And until people stop fucking emo boys, this paradigm will reign supreme.