One of the reasons why I’m very tentative about cutting my hair is because I don’t want to be mistakenly labeled as “emo.” Because everything you see and read in the Internet is true, I took an “emo test” in a Friendster survey and found out that I’m 90% emo. Consider the evidence weighed against me:
- I love the color black.
- I always sit at the corner.
- I like listening to metal rock (sic) music.
- I have a lot of problems with my life.
- I’m not much of a loud person.
- I don’t talk much.
- I don’t have that much (sic) friends.
- I barely have fun.
- I barely go out with my folks or friends.
Save for a single “emo-defining” characteristic – that one side of my hair does not cover one of my eyes – I am, by virtue of this very scientific survey, 90% emo. Hmmm… is this the kind of defaming survey that could have me sue somebody for P15-million, and make me run 60-second TV ads demanding “the truth?”
I can dispute “emo” claims leveled against me just fine. For one, I don’t listen to emo music any more than I should: I’m through with my Lifehouse phase. In fact, I have memorized many of Willie Revillame’s songs in “Wowowee,” and I sing along to it. No self-respecting self-mutilator will ever sing “Sayaw Darling,” let alone dance to it with all the bravado of a lower ape with pronounced prognathism (my Anthropology training suddenly paid off).
For two, if I ever cut my hair emo-style and wore checkered clothing, I would look more like Senator Ping Lacson. Now that I wear urban cowboy boots, I’d fit more in the general category of a longtime Baguio resident sans the betel-nut chewing (pardon the stereotype).
Trust me, I’m not emo. I eat emo people for breakfast.
