Dear Emos,
The way you manage to completely and utterly be a waste of space on this world boggles my mind. There are far more people needing that last, dying breath than you, though while you still continue to breathe and waste our air, more people die. It's ironic in that fact, because it should be you who is using that last dying breath, and just rid the world of your literal depressive existance forever. Your previous attempts to be a gothic persona and punk have failed miserably. Your very pulse is an affront to humanity. Why not just follow through with the razor, like you've been threatening to do for months now. Oh, I forget that you're missing a spine, you scab of human misery, so you can't manipulate that knife over your wrists very well at all. I do jest though. You do have a spine. Make sure you do the world a favour and record the crack of your neck snapping when you hang yourself, just so we know you aren't playing a sick joke if you do actually turn out to still be alive. It's only a matter of time until the world declares your genocide. Be proud you will shortly take your prestiegous place along side the Tasmanian tiger and the dodo; it's more than you deserve to be recorded in history.
The subcultures of society were actually bareable before the emergence of "emo". You ran this society into the ground. I remember the day when society and culture were an interwined pillar if of not good taste, but of self-esteem. The 80's may have had sweatbands, no colour co-ordination and platform shoes, but you made men wearing women's jeans a popular trend. Back in those days you could constructively criticize what people were wearing and they wouldn't bitch because the person in question was on his period that day. Even if that criticizm took the form of tying him to a stake on hay bales and that hay somehow had petrol poured on it and ignited.
You recently spawned a new genetic fuckup, right after yourself, and for what? You couldn't handle being human just like everybody else, you had to become a mutant? Oh, I remember. If you're dressing up in women's clothing and applying make-up, you're a transvestite. You have to go the whole nine yards and become something less than what you were born to be. Your final statement to the world is "Look at me! I'm a shallow emotional shitlicker, and my pussy would bleed twice a month if I had one! Screw you, female gender; I'm an emo!"
I should sue each and every one of you fuckheads for the rising blood pressure you give me. I lay awake every night, thinking how much I hate the Howard givernment. Then I realise that it's not the Howard givernment I hate, but rather what it would be like it Latham had won the election. Then I realise that it isn't about Latham at all, it's about how things would be if Beazley got in. Nobody would understand a word he's saying unless you somehow got a Telly Tubby translator, and then got that to do the conversions for you. The only reason he wants to kneecap a Chaser guy is so he's low enough to butt fuck. I'll see you fuckers in court. Once you leave the courtroom wondering why you were there because I couldn't think of what to sue you for I was so blinded with rage, I'll stab you in the jaw. That's right, you'll come out the doors, walk up to me, and I'll stab you in the jaw. You can bring your buddies, and all come along. It won't be too hard to find me; I'll be the guy stabbing jaws. There's only one of me, unless people catch on about how awesome an idea it is to stab emos in the jaw, and join me in my malicious and righteous fun.
I remember when inventing a new trend was a thing of genius and art! Now it's just a cheap slander upon society you shit swingers pull to have a laugh while Howard is in America talking over Iraq with Bush, and millions die in the Amazon from lack of medicine, and entire species are wiped out from the logging. You people make me gag and retch at the same time. Gretch, you fuck-knuckles make me gretch.
Nevermind the fact your slutty whore sister is the only one who will date you. Did she do it just to stop your incessant blubbering? If I called child services now, I could have you put away for good. You'll be slapped in jail with the big boys, but at least in there they'll tell you to cry. In space, nobody can hear you scream. Unluckily for you, you'll be in the prison showers, where everybody around can hear your shriek like a pansy. I wonder what your sister would say then. Probably that she's glad to finally able her own jeans now.
I am the greatest man alive. Everybody with self-esteem is already several thousand chromosomes higher than you, even though you need at least a couple of those to live. I think. My point is, you're akin to shit. You had your chance to keep your spine. To cherish your self-esteem, and be loved, but you threw it all away. It's so unfortunate for you that without my support, your whole subculture will wither and die. I am a legend. Your very existance moulds itself to my whims. I don't need you. I wouldn't even use you to wipe the shit on my shoes, though if I stepped in any shit, it would mean I've somehow trodden on you. So fuck you and your hatred of the french VIVA LA REVOLUTION FUCK YOU UNITED STATES OF OPPRESSION.
The next time I see one of you shitlickers, I'm going to shove my fist down your throat so hard, I'll pull the used condoms out you got from the club just last night. You'll be sorry you existed, let alone conformed to that "non-conformitive" trend. There's two meaning to that conformitive part. Take the first three letters, and you get the meaning of your entire pseudo-cult. Con. I hope you all die. Don't let me stop you bitches following through with it.
Regards,
Nate.
