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The men in my life depress me.

They want to sleep with me.

But their brains are mush.

IRL…you depress me.

I’m not normally depressed. I’m normally content.

Sometimes I want to stab and slice people, but that’s why the god put me on this planet, it’s not from a depression.

Why do people think that The Emoi are constantly depressed? Are there not other emotions that deserve to be explored to an addictive level? Does this not make me the darkest of the dark with the layering of intense hue on intense hue, cholera and euphoria plucked at random from the swirling drain of my life?

I need someone in my life that can appreciate my dysthemic musings. *sigh*

It’s as the greatest poet of our time, Ian Curtis, said: “heart and soul, one will burn”

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the sheer victory of inspiring hopelessness in others. Words like yours make me proud to be a Man, void of respect for whimsical word**** of great timesdumpsters.

Still, the subject of emos aiming to overdo just about any emotion they can get their grubby little mitts on has been broached before. It reminds me of Wilde and the Marquis de Sade, although they were a little more refined than the bad-haired whinertarts.

Restocking the shelves bump.