Part of the Uncyclopedia series on Misery:

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Emo (from the Latinemere, meaning 'to buy, purchase') is a type of subculture loosely rooted around punk rock with its own distinct style of music, fashion, argot and other trappings in a desperate, though ultimately hopeless attempt to pronounce their uniqueness.

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As a rule of thumb, a person described as 'emo' (falling under certain behavior mannerisms and attire correlating with the subculture) will often be from a comfortable, middle-class background with liberalparents. All of this is irrelevant to an emo who will consider themselves misunderstood and repressed regardless of reality. Any urologist would say that these very emotional people need to be encouraged by the rest of society to help them jump off a bridge and stop taking up our public benches.

They all suffer from severe narcissism, leading them to believe that they alone know what pain is, and that no one understands them, when in fact they are simply experiencing puberty; just like everyone else is. They all believe that their personal affliction could not be worse, that their life in their quiet suburban house with their own television and computer in their room is not just the worst life they could have, but the worst life anyone has had, ever. On the plus side, emos have made great strides in the fields of photography. Many surrealist photographers study the ridiculous and almost impossible-to-duplicate camera angles emos use to post pictures on their MySpace.

Origin

The word 'emo' surfaced, like boy bands, during the 1990s. The theory that the word was used in the late 1980s to describe a branch of hardcore punk music, an abbreviation for 'emotive' or 'emotional hardcore' is mistaken, as bands like Fugazi are anything but emotive. It is a widely held misconception that music has an emotive quality, in any case. In fact, everybody on the Internet knows that 'emo' means 'angsty kids who take pictures of themselves in a mirror on MySpace.'

'Emo' is a subculture derived from goths, derived from punk, derived from tophats. The difference is that goths kill kittens, while emos cry when kittens are killed or when candidates like John Kerry lose the election. Emos wear tight pants while goths wear parachute pants. Emos have more in common with a chocolate cookie than they do with goths.

Fashion and Demeanour

Emo clothing is typically black, mixed with smaller amounts of shockingly bright colors. While emo hair is mostly black as well, there are often flamboyantly bright highlights. Emos tend to favor one-eyed hair cuts. Some believe this hairstyle to have stemmed from a lack of self-esteem or so that they can look like pirates, but it is more commonly believed that they only have one eye.

It is often very difficult to identify the gender of an emo, and even the emos themselves may not be entirely sure of their sex. Many of the emo kind express this by saying they are bisexual. Contrary to popular belief, this is not just a trend; they just cannot decide which set of genitals they prefer in their mouth, which is generally a sign of looming gaydom. They can be easily identified by their ridiculously tight jeans if male (stolen from sister's closet or bought at Macy's). Specifically for the males, wearing tight pants, white studded belts, and small band t-shirts are prevalent. Piercings, eyeliner, and long hair are also common but not necessary.

Lifestyle

A majority of those in the emo subculture are vegetarians. This stems from a liberal moral absolutist ideology about eating animals being wrong and horrible like that PETA video shows. How sad. This ideology also reinforces the idea that all emo males are pussies and all emo females are stupid. Emos, like most vegetarians, are not without blatantly bashing meat eating and meat eaters. It is common to see an emo eating a large salad, fruits, and vegetables while looking rather pathetically at a 'normal' person consuming a tasty hamburger.

Others who push the self-righteousness further follow the 'sxe' lifestyle, also known as 'Straight Edge', where they refuse to drink, smoke, eat, or have sex (including masturbation). Masturbation is often to pictures of nerd girls with large bodies, dark hair, and glasses with large, black frames or sext. Don't misunderstand this, these girls are not hot. That's why they are on porn sites or living with families long after college. So, there has been little noted distinction between the 'Straight Edge' lifestyle and the moral code of Catholicism. At least not yet.

Self-harm

Emos are known for their often self-inflicted pain. The reason for this is that emos tend to produce gargantuan amounts emoglobin, a hormone which causes depression, shitty hairstyles, and an introverted attitude. Contrary to emo belief, cutting oneself does not release this hormone; the only known cures are to consume the soul of a kitten (see kitten huffing for instructions), to just stop being such a pathetic bitch and get a haircut, or to commit suicide. Unfortunately, emos produce no amount of the hormone known as common sense, so that rules the last option out. Some emos make the outlandish claim that they inflict pain on themselves because nobody likes them, and that's why they cut themselves. Though the statement that nobody likes them is the truest thing to ever be documented, that's not the real reason that emos cut; it's all in the emoglobin.

Natural Habitat

Emos enjoy dark, dry places, and middle-class suburbs.

Another place of interest is, in fact, their own bathroom. They derive entertainment out of taking pictures of the reflections of themselves, often showing the camera flash. This has proven another fact: emos are horrible photographers. With all this in mind, common logic would be to shun them from society, or throw them into a pack of wild wolves, but unfortunately 'laws' prevent us from doing so.

When roaming outside of their homes, they can be found at their local high school amongst their peers, although now that emoism has been around for some time, emos can be found in colleges. In this environment, the emo's natural predator is any rational human being. They're also commonly found roaming the local mall in abundance, specifically around Hot Topic and stores near it. In order to go past this area, a gas mask and earmuffs are required. Don't ask why! Just do it! Emos will often attend a concert (referred to as a 'show'), standing completely still. Homoeroticism may ensue, so if you ever find yourself in this position, get the fuck out. Unless you enjoy it. In which case, don't worry, they don't make much noise anyway. Even if you do have your cock up their arse.

Emo grass

The only lasting legacy of the emo movement has been its effect on Genetically Modified Organisms (GMO), as science has created a mutation of common Kentucky bluegrass called emo grass. The principal selling feature of this high-tech product is that it cuts itself.

See also

Look, nobody told me I’d have to deal with this L.G. FUAD heart for the rest of my life.

But there are still moments when the emo part of my brain overrides the rest of my system in surprising ways, long after the mid aughts, when we were all enamored by every act Fueled By Ramen was churning out. (That part is rarely ever dormant, but still.) FM radio classifies Paramore's Riot! days as throwback material, but catch me feeling young again when it comes on. As a singer for a band, I'm prone to strain for the high whiney registers of the movement's great frontmen, from Gerard Way to Aaron Gillespie. And I know it's corny at this point, but if a DJ starts playing Sugar We're Going Down at a party, I'm still going to absolutely lose my shit.

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I think I got it from having grown up in a certain time. We of my generation—sad and angry and shimmying into the protective embrace of black hoodies—wanted to feel everything. That’s what adolescence does. Every emotion is a cataclysmic event, every heartbreak an apocalypse. The emo movement—and this is obvious to anyone who's ever dipped their toes in it even a little—had a way of cradling these pangs and aches. Story of the Year's Dan Marsala singing “from up here, the city lights burn like a thousand miles of fire” was what I came of age to.

I remember watching Saosin when they came here, timidly inching my way into hurricane moshpits full of other jittery scene kids. I remember seeing Paramore from the view of general admission, completely convinced that salvation, or something that resembled it, was blasting out of those speakers. I'm sure the crowd felt the same. I remember falling in love to songs, crying to songs, finding a home for my anger in songs. The songs were always there. I remember going to the house of an ex-friend I don't speak to anymore, the both of us distanced by work and the venomous gossip of our social circle's smallness, to jam out to the piano version of 3rd Measurement in C. And when I was in high school, my batchmate and I, we went out during lunch one day and sat on the stone benches littered with fallen santan petals to learn how to play When It Rains, while negotiating how, due to a mutual crush, we'd sustain our friendship. Memories like those are impossible to kill.

I remember seeing Paramore from the view of general admission, completely convinced that salvation, or something that resembled it, was blasting out of those speakers.

And what’s more, these kids grew up. This much is true, as evidenced enough by how, when news of My Chemical Romance’s reunion went around, everybody between the ages of 24 and 35 suddenly regressed. Put on “I’m Not Okay” when they're in the area, and on Pavlovian reflex they'll wild out, but otherwise you wouldn't be able to tell these people were once sporting sideswept bangs, reading Pon and Zi, finding their place in The Black Parade.

I imagine it's the same with other generations, like how you can never tell at a glance your Boomer ‘rents were flower power kids once upon a time, or that your Gen X coworkers, swallowed by a system they do their best to survive in, headbanged to Kurt Cobain's screeds on modern society. How do you measure the way a subculture changes you?

I remember falling in love to songs, crying to songs, finding a home for my anger in songs. The songs were always there.

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I don't know, but we can make our guesses. There was a prophetic genius to the emo movement that only became clear in the light of today's cultural climate. Emo’s proclivity for androgyny laid solid groundwork for queer young adults to embrace identities that demolished the binary order. Emo’s fascination with the melancholic would come to provide a familiar solace for a generation afflicted with mental illness, nostalgic for a time when their sorrows were most understood, or at least reified with palm-muted power chords and fry screams.

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All I know is this: You know that tito at the family reunion who reeks of Tanduay and gives you cash to drop a cuss in front of your mother? The one who, tripping on nostalgia with the other boomers present and regaling each other with tales of bell bottoms and doing the Hustle, says “Disco’s not dead!” That’s going to be me. In the year 2037, in our small home surrounded by irradiated fields and debris from the class war, I’m going to put on the whole A Fever You Can’t Sweat Out and yell “Emo’s not dead!” at my poor nieces and nephews, my young heart pulsing wild in my old body.