Tap your chest, hang your head, and cry, motherfucker, cry. The problem with this recording, much like the problem with most emo, is that it lacks balls. Cojones. Testicles. Guts. Intestinal fortitude. All that shit. Records like this are soundtracks for people who have failed and given up trying. As such, they diminish my life for the brief period of time that it takes me to skip to the next disc.