Mar 04, 2001

The reason that there’s no title to this is because it’s in Japanese, my computer doesn’t do Japanese lettering and it’s not translated because I’m currently unable to read Japanese. A feeling of unease crept upon me as I sat looking at the poorly lighted pictures of the band, clouds, buildings and rain-soaked streets. "It can’t be," I reassured myself. "There’s no way possible that it’s what you think it is." With trepidation, I opened my disc player, inserted the disc, closed the door and pressed play. Eight seconds into the first song, I screamed in utter horror at the ghastly cacophony emanating from my speakers. It was exactly as I feared. My worst horror had been realized. I ran headlong into the night. After a two-day frantic search through every morgue and hospital in the greater Los Angeles area, my girlfriend found me in a sanitarium. "What has happened to him?" she asked the doctor through a veil of tears. "We’re not quite sure," her replied. "He was found in a back alley in Little Tokyo, covered in rags, repeating a strange mantra that we have so far been unable to decipher." "What was he saying?" she asked. "It’s quite baffling, really," he said as if lost in thought. "So far as we tell, it sounds as if he keeps repeating ‘Japanese emo, Japanese emo.’"

 –jimmy (Toy’s Factory, no address)

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