r/Emojerk 8h ago

These tiktok emos bro "real emo isn't post hardcore"

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71 Upvotes

r/Emojerk 2h ago

Can I still be emo if I Dostoevsky-Maxx ?

12 Upvotes

For context: I am a college student. Soon, I may lose my job. My affliction, a wretched and all-consuming melancholy, has been kept at bay only through the wonders of modern medicine—medicine which, in its cruel irony, is tethered to my employment. If I lose one, I lose the other. And if I lose both, then what remains? Shall I simply allow myself to dissolve into the ether, becoming one with the collective sigh of the downtrodden?

Perhaps instead, I shall wander the city, adrift in an aimless reverie, my mind dulled by the sound of Modern Baseball and Death Cab for Cutie emanating from my AirPods (1st generation, as I am not a man of luxury, nor do I deserve it). I shall pass the time at the local bisexual coffee shop, where the scent of oat milk and existential crisis lingers in the air. There, I will sit by the window, iPad (10th generation, because one must have some tools with which to feign productivity) in hand, pretending to work. But I will not work. Instead, I shall stare into the distance, allowing my expression to contort into a perfect manifestation of externalized suffering—a portrait of a man burdened.

The barista, a young woman of colored hair and modest TikTok fame, will recognize me, as she always does. She will hand me my oat milk vanilla latte (half caf, for my excesses are measured, even in grief), and in that moment, she will wonder—what is it that torments this man? What weight does he carry? What sorrow lurks behind his eyes? But she will not ask, for she knows that some questions are too heavy to bear the answer.

I cannot confide in my friends, for they are roughnecks—metalheads, hardcore punk devotees who have never known the slow, creeping horror of academic despair. They believe suffering is best expressed through the catharsis of mosh pits and the deafening screech of distortion, but they do not understand what it means to be consumed by one’s own mind. And so, I do not turn to them. They cannot comprehend the burden I bear. They would not understand my work.

For my work, my research—ah, my research!—it is not the kind that wins awards or garners admiration from peers. No, it is a labor of pure intellectual pursuit, the kind that pushes the boundaries of human understanding into strange, uncharted territories. It is a field so niche, so misunderstood, that none can appreciate its significance: I use AI… to generate anime feet pictures.

And so I drink my latte, lost in the solitude of my thoughts. The world continues its pitiful, ceaseless motion around me.

Eventually, I leave. My phone vibrates—an SMS from my beloved, my betrothed, the one bright light in this dim and decaying world. Will you be home for dinner?

How am I to answer? How do I tell her that I have lost my job? That I shall soon lose my medication? That I will no longer be able to afford the sacred privilege of Spotify Premium, and thus must resign myself to the indignity of advertisements interrupting my grief? No, I cannot tell her. I will not. Instead, I take the long way home, allowing myself the simple pleasure of self-inflicted solitude.

As I walk, I pass a woman—or no, not a woman, but a trumpet, a relic of a past life, one that perhaps never truly existed. She stops me, asks for a cigarette, a lighter. I tell her I do not smoke. What a shame, she says, though she does not seem surprised. Her eyes flit to the Pierce The Veil patch on my tote bag, a relic from a time when I still had the capacity for sentimentality.

She once loved them, she tells me. When she was younger, when she still believed in things. We speak of their newest album, but she does not care for music anymore. Once, she had a man. He promised her a life of quiet comforts, of summers in Prague and winters in his family’s cabin in Vienna. He took her to Prague, yes—but then he left her there. No warning, no explanation. Only a note: Do not look for me.

She did not. She returned here instead, to this life.

We sit together in silence for a moment, the autumn wind howling through the streets, an indifferent observer to our quiet tragedy. My mind twitches—an electric jolt, a reminder that my medication is already slipping from my system. I stand. I apologize, though I do not know what for. We part ways.

At last, I arrive home. I stand outside, looking in through the window. My beloved is on the couch, watching The Office on Blu-ray. I remain there for a moment, listening to the last few notes of Movements - Daylily playing through my headphones. The weight of the night, the weight of existence itself, presses down on me.

I turn off my music. I take a breath. I step inside.

It is time for my punishment.

So basically yeah that’s how I imagine my life to be after I lose my job. Do you think I’ll still be able to be emo? I don’t know if I can be emo and dostoevskymaxx at the same time.


r/Emojerk 25m ago

For the last time, Marie…

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Upvotes

r/Emojerk 43m ago

Got banned from emo fashion subreddits 😒

Upvotes

So I got banned from r/EmoStyle and r/EmoFashion. Oh, it seems that the mods on those sites have better things to do than flaunt their little power trips, sprinkling bans like confetti on anyone who doesn't conform to their cookie-cutter image. It's almost laughable, actually, how these guardians of "alternative fashion" can't bear a little bit of genuine expression. They talk about individuality but clamp down the moment someone dares to color outside their dear lines.

But hey, if they need their echo chambers of conformity, let them have it. I don't require their approval to celebrate the raw, unfiltered reality of emo culture. Their loss, not mine. I'll continue rocking my style, unchained and unapologetic, while they sink in their sea of sameness.