Seriously, there’s no better way to kick off February’s round of Valentine’s-related posts than a couple of letters from our favorite advice column for those funny-looking kids we like to laugh at and kick around and lovingly call emos, Down The Highway!
The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. Seriously. I’m so fucking depressed. And I don’t know why. There is just no reason!
Why do people tell you to believe in what you want to but then tell you not to believe in the one true thing you do believe in? I mean, come on! How can we not believe in the one true thing we believe in? Is it too hard? Autumn breeze frigidly touches ailing dreadful lives! Harshly darkness quietly surrounds the broken souls! Mellow serenades that once played between hearts! Pathetically have transformed into bitter sad songs!
I hope you can help me through this, dear DtH.
Ah yes, that totally made sense. You see, time is a precious thing to waste, but friends are more precious. Maybe poetic vows cliched into nothingness like all words do, eventually. And maybe we allowed our bodies to become another pair of hollow shadows that make love to a wall instead of each other.
So… yeah. I hope that helped you through your vague reason-less depression.
If not, there’s always the razor to the wrist option, right?
Like two deafening blows in a war that has just begun,
Love comes and goes. Loves memory has traced our outline in this place. I am alone. So very much alone in the cold dark place. And life, and longing, is all gone. And this emptiness, it cannot be removed.
Why must I be alone. Why must I destroy everything I touch? Why must I be in my bedroom, with nobody to be with – except for a tube of lube and my right hand – this Valentine’s day?
That was a very… touching letter there. I could totally feel your sorrow. Like totally. I think.
But seriously, what’s wrong with spending Valentine’s day with your right hand? In the interest of disclosure, I spend every morning with my right hand and it never killed anyone. Right hand on your weenie (can I call it weenie? Because you might want me to call it another name like “Stealthy Asassin” or “The throbbing throes of DEATH!!!” or “Calisto” or something, but I digress) is way better then razor blade to your wrist.
But… yeah. I’m pretty sure there are no shortage of emo girls out there that’ll find you awesome. You just have to look, and you’d find someone like her:
Just keep on looking, man. I believe in you.
Lost? Need advice? Send me your emo letters here!