The Importance of Being Emo

Well, my girlfriend of two years has transferred schools (back to her hometown of Boston, MA) and the curtain has finally fallen on what was a very loving and emotionally fulfilling relationship. Neither of us really wants things to end. Things went well for the majority, however the cruel machinations of geography, plane ticket cost, and higher education have cruelly conspired against us.

Fuckin’ geography…

Anyway, what really sucks is the fact that the ending of what had been an increasingly convoluted and difficult-to-deal-with puzzle of emotions and logic gives birth to an even more confusing dilemma: how can I get myself over this? It’s not just a matter of finding a way to deal and then dealing, because in my case I have to find a whole new strategy. Living in an area where Hot Topic and Chris Cabrerra have firmly taken hold over the mainstream-antipop-MTV-underground, many of my former avenues out had been closed off by a socially stigmatized label: Frankly, I don’t want anyone to think I’m being “emo” about this.

Normally, this would be a fairly easy thing to do. Just identify the behavior that I don’t want to have, keep an eye on myself for a few days, and make sure I don’t do anything too emo. Simple enough, right?

Well, not really. In the past few years, the term emo has become very broad and all encompassing, now covering pretty much anyone who is in any way expressing sadness over anything that might not directly affect another person. Consequently, many ways of dealing with personal grief have been emo-fied and are now avoided like the plague.

I’ve got to get over her. To start, I’ll sit down with my acoustic guitar, strum out a few open chords, and write myself a song in, say, A minor. I’m currently sick, so my singing would be off key. This would make me feel better simply because it combines playing music with bitching about my situation. Even if it’s to no one in particular, talking helps.

The problem with this strategy is that, because we share a wall, my sister would hear me and do what she’s already done at least once in the past week: look me in the eye and call me emo. Normally something like this wouldn’t bother me that much, but consider the source. I’m no expert, but when a 15- year-old-girl tells you there is too much drama in your life, it might be wise to take some notice.

Alright, fine, no guitar. Instead I’ll try a different form of musical therapy and play some music that reflects my state of mind. In fact, to hedge this bet, I’ll stay away from acoustic guitars all together and instead spin Nine Inch Nails’ “Pretty Hate Machine;” not only entirely computer generated but possibly one of the best pity parties ever recorded. Wait, no, that doesn’t work either, the simple act of listening to music that speaks to your heartbreak and disappointment is the very cornerstone of the Sears Tower of whininess that is emo.

So those options are out.

Wait, I know! Since emo is really just a genre of music I’ll ignore music all together! I’ll write a poem instead.

Nope, wrong again, and this one is a double-edged sword. Writing the poem makes me emo simply because it would probably be filled with allusions to lost love and heartache. Now that’s emo (which I guess is the new Romanticism). So what if I just wrote it and never showed it to anyone? No, then I’d be the tortured, insecure-about-my-work artist. More emo.

Screw it. I’m just going to stay in my room and not do anything until I’ve not only repressed all of the memories of my ex but also act and think in a completely blasé manner in regards to all attachment to everything (except my blasé attitude itself). Wait, damn, then I’d be reclusive, snobby, and depressed, a combination that I think would make me a level 15 Dashboard Confessor (even worse than Jimmy the level 13 World Eater). In fact, if I’m snobby enough I might even jump off the emo scale and onto the “scene” scale, which I think is actually a grim parallel universe where Revlon rules the world.

I give up. I’ve tried everything. I think I’ll just go out, unleash a bitchfest of biblical proportions on my buddies, and hope I feel better afterwards. I just hope that none of them think I’m whining and forcing my problems onto others, because then I’d be right back where I started, wasting away again in Emoville. It’s enough to make a guy want to scream, but I can’t do that, either, because then I’d be screamo.

The real question, though, is what does writing an article about not wanting to be emo make me? While I am technically complaining (and therefore being emo), at the same time I’m also expressing how un-emo I want to be, even though I am being emo, I clearly don’t like my current state of emo, but the fact remains, I am somewhat emo. If I’m emo about being emo, am I still really emo?

Really that doesn’t matter, because at this point I’ve put about 30 times as much energy into figuring out a non-emo way to get over my ex as I have into the actual act of getting over her.

Unfortunately, life rarely conforms to the scene. Breakups can be hard and can hurt, and they can make you want to be a whiny little bitch for a few days, not to be irritating to your friends, but because it genuinely helps to feel like someone still cares about you. I admit that turning heartache into a lifestyle would get old fast, but think about it: songs where the basic message is, “my baby left me and now I’m sad” predate Hot Topic by a good 1600 years.

Emotional turmoil isn’t new, nor are songs, music therapy, poetry, or complaining about your problems to your friends. They help, they’re all forms of self-therapy that make the healing process faster and easier. Please take a tip from your good buddy Slightly-Emo Tom: If your friend’s being emo, why not listen instead of making fun?