I was determined to shove the 15-year old emo boy away from the MAC makeup counter on Saturday. I advocated the use of violence towards him to the girl standing behind me who also wanted to reach the counter. A swift tap to the ankles from some pointy-toed shoes would be forgivable, as not only was he blocking the stand for ages, but he was wearing badly-placed red eyeshadow and fishnets down his arms. He had smeared his fingers in about 100 eyeshadow pots in order to do his friends’ makeup, all while evangelising about how wonderful makeup was.
I realised why I don’t go into the city on weekends. I didn’t know how much huge gatherings of emo kids make me have vague, non-specific negative reactions. It’s not like they really piss me off; it’s more that another group walks past me, and I end up thinking Oh, you poor dears, not you as well? And then I think to myself in shame that if I got transplanted from ten years ago to high school now, I’d probably be an emo kid. And it kind of freaks me out, considering how much I just don’t like them.
Of course, all this is even funnier if you could see the colour of my hair as of yesterday. I thought I’d found my perfect shade of deep, rich brown to finally get rid of my stubborn red highlights. It says “brown” on the box, several times. Yet it has turned my hair black. Not even in sunlight does my hair look close to a dark chocolate colour. I should say it’s the best shade of black I’ve ever seen… but ugh, emo. No one likes an emo kid. Maybe I should post this on Myspace.
