emocapella

Joe wakes up every afternoon, drowns himself in a scalding hawt shower, rubs his flesh raw with a sponge while tearfully wailing out in emonglish. While the glaring sun is still out, he stays in his room and wonders how to greet females. Surrounded by them in the hall, he keeps the door locked, lest he be overwhelmed with a longing to fufill the passion within his loins. And be liked.

He attends group therapy sessions the nights with other emos, cause he’s not cool enough to be in a real band. The other nights he spends trying to smother himself with his bedsheets, which are wet from his tears.