"Life is pain," said the dramatic emo boy, his lanky, greasy hair draped over his eye like a stage curtain half-drawn over a Shakespearean tragedy. "Life is pain. I might be healthy now, but this body will soon break down and get old and weary and rundown and broken and this young, healthy man will become a decrepit old derelict who lies in bed all day because his knees are so bad he can't walk."
"Life is pain," insisted the black-clad emo boy, gesturing wildly at me over his cheap cut-glass tumbler of wormwood-free absinthe with its burnt-sugar louche. "Life is pain and love is a lie. My girlfriend doesn't really love me, she just thinks she does and pretends for my sake. It doesn't matter that she says she loves me every day and has mad, passionate sex with me every night, it's all just a lie and she'll leave me as soon as she finds someone better."
"Life is pain," argued the emo boy to the coffee-house full of beret-wearing arti