Last week a young female acquaintance stood by me, surveying me subtly before turning to me and asking bluntly “Are you goth? Or punk? Or emo? I can’t figure out which one.”
It was one of those moments where a billion responses flood to mind, and from the flurry of activity in your bamboozled head, you manage to pick probably the lamest one, so I simply asked back, “Are you serious?”.
“Well”, she proceeded, “You have those black nails, and that thing in your lip, and I bet you have tattoos don’t you?”.
Those aforementioned witty responses seemed to solidify into one distinct feeling of disdain and amusement. I wanted to laugh at her and boot her in the head all at once. Was she essentially asking me to define myself in one word, thus making it easier for her to figure out what kind of person I was? Was I a sadistic paganest, a cold, hardcore loner or an emotionally crippled juvenile?
You don’t see me loitering outside Famous on a Saturday asking people if they’re ‘too dumb to know better’, ‘desperate for attention’, or ‘partially blind and severely overpaid’, according to the clothing they choose to wear, no matter how much those mini Peter Pan ankle boots make me want to point and giggle.
Perhaps the most appropriate response was that maybe I was a combination of the bunch, an agnostic who loves music of the punk persuasion who can easily go through a couple o boxes of tissues when the occasion and/or touching movie strikes, and who mostly paints her nails out of sheer boredom and ‘cos underneath they’re turning a weird orangey colour and deep down I’d rather not know why, or contemplate the crippling, nail-discolouring disease they’re symptom to and the many ways in which I’ll inevitably die a horrible, horrible death.
Oh my god, I’m gothic!
It was one of those moments where a billion responses flood to mind, and from the flurry of activity in your bamboozled head, you manage to pick probably the lamest one, so I simply asked back, “Are you serious?”.
“Well”, she proceeded, “You have those black nails, and that thing in your lip, and I bet you have tattoos don’t you?”.
Those aforementioned witty responses seemed to solidify into one distinct feeling of disdain and amusement. I wanted to laugh at her and boot her in the head all at once. Was she essentially asking me to define myself in one word, thus making it easier for her to figure out what kind of person I was? Was I a sadistic paganest, a cold, hardcore loner or an emotionally crippled juvenile?
You don’t see me loitering outside Famous on a Saturday asking people if they’re ‘too dumb to know better’, ‘desperate for attention’, or ‘partially blind and severely overpaid’, according to the clothing they choose to wear, no matter how much those mini Peter Pan ankle boots make me want to point and giggle.
Perhaps the most appropriate response was that maybe I was a combination of the bunch, an agnostic who loves music of the punk persuasion who can easily go through a couple o boxes of tissues when the occasion and/or touching movie strikes, and who mostly paints her nails out of sheer boredom and ‘cos underneath they’re turning a weird orangey colour and deep down I’d rather not know why, or contemplate the crippling, nail-discolouring disease they’re symptom to and the many ways in which I’ll inevitably die a horrible, horrible death.
Oh my god, I’m gothic!
1 comment:
Haha wtf? Who asked you this? I love it mate...
Btw I put up my music video for Bring Out Your Dead, take a look on my youtube...
www.youtube.com/astroluxuk
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