My EmoMy Emo My low knockoff converse shoes scraped mercilessly against the copper tiles. I slumped into the furthest corner I could find in the supposedly quaint coffee shop known as Fibonaccis. My black messenger bag weighed me down almost as much as the overall ambiance surrounding the stereotypical surroundings. My sleek, feminine form wilted into the light contemporary chairs. Walls around me were covered in modern artwork filled with colored, sprouting life. As I gazed desolately around me, I came to the conclusion that this picturesque café was everything I was not. The place reeked of different exotic coffees, and nearly every individual in the building was an orthodox example of either a hippy or an emo. I cautiously pulled out my lap top while trying desperately to avoid any eye contact. My black hoodie encompassed my fragile physique.