It was especially tough since I went to a school that was about 50 percent lower class white sociopaths, 40 percent lower class black sociopaths and 10 percent really stuck-up rich white kids who got the shaft during the last county rezonings.
If you were a sixth grade jock, you hung out with the seventh grade jocks and if you were a seventh grade spoiled princess, you hung out with the spoiled eighth grade princesses. The in-group mobility always fascinated me … especially since I was pretty much relegated to existence outside any of them. It was in the sixth grade that I was introduced to a certain — Fashion? All guys have a type — some are into your standard breastaurant waitress mold, others are into the tatted up neo-pin-up template, and others are all about the artsy-fartsy nerd chic — and it was here, I suppose, that I developed mine: They hung out together on the weekends and did needle drugs and practiced black magic spells.
They all chainsawed hobos to death behind Costco while blaring Marilyn Manson. Granted, the worst things they actually did was smoke cigarettes outside the movie theater and maybe shoplift a few malt liquors, but they embraced the paranoia and fear the other students fostered for them.
In a way, it made them above the junior high totem, making them a more powerful caste system force than even the preppiest of preps. Sure, everybody made fun of them behind their backs, but nobody had the chutzpah to do it to their faces. Hey, we had all seen The Craft, and we knew what was in store for us if we pissed them off.
And there was something about that I found inherently appealing. While everybody else found the goth girls to be terrifying, I found them oddly alluring. Others thought their morbid, sadsack dispositions was the ultimate turnoff, but I thought it was inexplicably entrancing. Others saw them and wanted to run screaming the other opposite direction; I fantasized about running towards them, and being welcomed into their herd with loving, polka dot warmer-draped arms.
So, that eighth grader I was talking about earlier? She was probably the first major crush of my adolescence. Even now, I have no clue what her name was, but I will never forget seeing her at the bus stop for the first time. She was clad in fishnet arm bands, was rocking the kind of boots I had only seen in Hellraiser movies and her makeup was about one shade away from being a quasi-offensive appropriation of Kabuki theater.
Of course, I never responded. So, deep in my prefrontal cortex, that type of female — the one who wears dresses right out of a Bauhaus music video, has earrings shaped like demonic stalactites and whose idea of dolling up means putting on a slightly less faded Slayer tee shirt — became my go-to female ideal.
Throughout high school and college, I more or less homed in on all of the pale girls who wore Invader Zim shirts and hated their parents. Indeed, my very first makeout was with a girl wearing a literal pentagram on her forehead and I was introduced to the joys of carnal pleasure by a young woman whose entire makeup chest was filled with nothing but novelty Halloween lipsticks and nail polishes.
In fact, I soon learned that there are indeed five genuses of goth girl, each with her very own idiosyncratic quirks: She claims to be a dark, poetic soul, but really, she just likes to wear purple a lot. The only thing in her purse are a couple of wadded up dollar bills, the cheapest cigarettes at 7-Eleven and a switchblade.
She plans on getting a PH. You absolutely cannot leave the house until she has her winged eyeliner down perfect. She paints her nails every other day and she makes at least one trip to Ulta a week. She never wears any makeup … or deodorant, for that matter.
Brushing her hair and teeth are infrequent occurrences. She seemingly only wants to kiss you right after she sucked down a Camel cigarette or peeled her lips off her dragon-shaped bong. All her jewelry is pewter, she farts in public and she spends at least half of the day playing League of Legends.
After all, to do that means you have to get up off the couch every now and then. Yeah, sometimes you get a mixture of two or three of them, but by and large? That encompasses the entirety of the female goth varieties.
Each subset has its pros and cons, its faults and benefits, something to admire and adore and something to detest and despise. Because goth girls — for better or worse — represent the most diverse range of female personality types. Some are incredibly chill, while others are pretentious and — ironically — stuck-up. Others are nauseatingly banal, downright obsessive and, on the deep, deep side of the pool, positively deranged. Even as fleeting, transitory relationships, they provide you with something to remember about both the fairer sex and who and what you are as a person.
Spend a year dating nothing but goth girls, however, and an entire cosmos of previously unrevealed knowledge befalls you. Hell, you might even find one that is just the right fit, and who knows? Maybe you two can have an all-black wedding, with a cobwebbed Pinterest cake or something. But perhaps the biggest reason to date goth girls while you are a young dude?
Because, simply put, goth girls stop existing at age They are professionals now, and they have to terraform themselves to that boring, staid, office drone look. Adios frilly blouse with the poofy shoulder pads and sayonara eggplant eyeshadow. The lip ring comes out, the Doc Martens go the thrift store and the tattered Cure shirts are locked away in the basement, never to see the light of day ever again.
You can always find a bubbly cheerleader or artsy geek type when you are 30 and But the authentic, red-blooded, all-American goth girl? For those of you have long mulled pursuing a darker, more lugubrious kind of romance? Remember, the clock is running out, and the sands of time are slipping by a lot faster than you imagine. Aye, such would be a fate grimmer than death herself. You will be okay.