Makeup Monday has become Tardy Tuesday. Why? Because Monday was my birthday and I got to do what I want. Which included throwing a Gothday party for my inner teenager and I was too busy moping about dramatically to post pictures. So there. But now I have pictures of my birthday goth face AND bonus pictures of some other dramatic souls. I went a bit softer for this look; historically when I go goth I go all out– lots and lots of black–but then I see pictures of me and GAH! I think it makes my face too heavy, so I tried something with a bit more color. I know, heresy, but it’s red and purple so it’s ok.
I was a legit goth for a while in highschool; my parents actually bought me a dog-tag with my name on it for my spiked collar– they thought they were quite funny, I imagine. I, of course, huffed a lot about how they just didn’t GET IT.
Here are a few bits of evidence. I’m sure there’s more somewhere but let’s leave that to history. Note the dramatic black-and-white film, artsy double exposure, and gothy band posters. Yes, that was my room. I also covered the ceiling with tin foil– what of it?
So what was it about being a goth? There’s something about being a teenager that is just perfect for the goth lifestyle. A sense of awkward uncertainty, coupled with massive self-centeredness and a grand flair for the dramatic. The boots, fishnets and trench coats made pretty fantastic armor; I always felt like such a badass lacing up my 20-hole boots (Fluevog Angels, if you were wondering).
Except I was kind of scared of everyone.
But dressing goth gave you an instant crew– all the other goth kids. I don’t actually recall even LIKING most of them that much, but we all needed protection, so we were bound together. My mother once asked me why, if I hated the “look at the weird kid” attention that my looks got me, why didn’t I just dress in a normal, inconspicuous way? Why did I “ask for it” if I didn’t want it? I didn’t have a good answer then, and I still don’t, though I no longer get mad and storm off about it. It would have been easier to just put on jeans and a t-shirt and blend in and be left alone… all I can say is that I tried that in freshman year and girls on the volleyball team were still monumentally mean and exclusive, so I basically said “fuck it” and went in the extreme opposite direction. If you’re not going to like or include me when I try to look like Suzie Highschool, then I’m going to become the opposite of that, and if that makes you uncomfortable, good. Fuck you and your popularity.
I never said it was particularly solid logic.
I wish I had my freshman and sophomore highschool pictures around. I have the exact same haircut in both, but in the first I’m blonde and wide-eyed in a white shirt; in the second the hair, lips, eyes and shirt are black and I’m smirking nastily. My dad used to keep them together in his wallet and call them “his two daughters”. Ha ha, Dad.
So many experiences as a teenager are firsts and thus monumental; just driving with friends feels like a music video. I cannot remember a time, before or since, that I ever enjoyed being in a car so much; the sense of freedom and inexpressible coolness it conveyed. Driving to the mall to go to Hot Topic was a joyous event worthy of folklore. Sitting at a coffee shop and drinking chai was an entire lifestyle. Playing pool at a bar that allowed high schoolers in until 6 was akin to being a god. Even depression is a novelty; I really reveled in being sad– dare I say I enjoyed it? Can you still be depressed if you are loving it? I recall having such a grand sense of my own epic importance and infinite possibility– I felt like something huge just waiting to happen, tense and taut with expectation.
I don’t want to romanticize high school– it was socially and emotionally rough and I don’t miss it– but I did enjoy that period in my life. In a chaotic, romantic, seethingly emotional way, it was truly grand, and I would like to retain some of that sense of excitement and possibility, rather than slipping into a jaded, bored stagnation. To still be so excited about what we are becoming, rather than lamenting what we have lost or have not lived up to. So here’s to goths everywhere– I raise a glass of blood-red wine, light a clove cigarette, bow deeply and say… nice boots.
I actually smoked this whole clove in my photo-closet while taking these. It was a birthday present and tasted like teenagers. Now all my clothes smell funny and my mom is going to ask about it and I’m going to catch hell. Oh wait I’m a grown up now.
Super-Goth Glamour Shots. My orange nails totally ruin everything.
And a close-up of my eyes. Now I’m thinking I should have shaved my eyebrows and drawn them back on but I wasn’t quite ready for that level of commitment.
And some party pictures. Goths don’t party, they convene and are alone together.
His ring is a bird skull that flips open to hold pills or poison and his necklace is bullets. Dreammmmmbooooooat!
Look at this spooky bitch.
Goths don’t wash dishes, they just scowl at them until they’re clean.
Prince of Darkness!
I have no idea what’s going on here but it’s kind of awesome.
It’s my party and I’ll die if I want to!
Bad wigs a-go-go.
We stole these from graves… just kidding it was Michael’s.
Ok that’s all. Have a spooky Tuesday.