Going To Prom With Goth Gary
Children of the dark, it is I: the Scion of Caliginosity, the Scourge of the Malebolge, the sorrow of Moldavia, D4rkman2005. I have returned from the depths of the night, having been gone too long. My mother took my computer away for a while, because she is afraid of my spooky words infecting the righteous and calming the wicked, and that somebody will abduct me from MySpace. Let them take me. When they hear tales of my dark, terrible past, they would only let me go, because their souls couldn't bear to hear any more.
My little wormy followers, the end of the Long Nights is upon us. Soon, the jocks and preppies will be stripping off their pastel Abercrombie shirts and putting on their Abercrombie swim clothes, or "garments of faceless water conformity" as I like to call them. The nights, alas, get shorter, and the air -- alack -- gets less chill. It could only mean one thing.
That's right, my hirsute hellions. It is prom season.
There is no one moment that excites the polo shirt-wearing wastrels more than their stupid prom. It is a chance for the yuppie parents of Suburbia to use their digital cameras to capture the plastic smiles of their yuppie children, so they can forever remember the day their souls were taken. If they had souls, which they don't, because their christian god is a hole dripping in the scrotum of creation.
I cried thrice today.
You must remember, my gloomy lovelies, that prom is something impossible for a real goth to enjoy. Top 40 pop princesses with their shiny dresses and idiot football jockstars dancing in ignorance of the horridness of life, Faths (fad goths) pretending to not like the prom but actually having a good time -- all of these things are what the real goth stands against, if he could care enough to stand against something amidst the misery of life. Therefore, you must make every effort to not go.
Last year, this decently hot girl Heather asked me if I wanted to go with her. I told her, "No, Fath. I'm not just some American Eagle worshipper who will buy you flowers and pretend everything is all right just so you can have your princess moment." But she begged me, and cut her arm with a pencil just to show me how serious she was. So I went against my will, and it sucked. This proves the goth way: that goths are always right. But if you do end up going, there are some important, dark rules that you must follow at all times:
1.) Do not wear a tuxedo. (Unless you are a girl, then that's hot and androgynous and shit. Or unless you took the tuxedo from a corpse.) You must seek out alternatives. Something black with ruffles that looks kind of like vampire clothes is perfect, and you must not wash your hair beforehand. Shave your eyebrows and wear a vintage 18th century black top hat (my ignorant male parent bought me mine, it was only $19.95 plus shipping). Also, a cane works well, especially a snake-headed cane like Lucius Malfoy's from Harry Potter. If you read Harry Potter, I hate you even more than I already did. Nothing does more damage to the reputation of the realm of true Witchecrafte than does Harry "I should be raped by Satan" Potter.
2.) Do not dance. I don't care about the gyrations of your "date", whatever it may say. You may not dance. When I went with Heather, she totally told me she'd go down on me in the bathroom if I danced. I said, "No, Fath. I am not slave to my bodily desires like the sports-playing bastards
you've had your way with before. I won't sacrifice my individuality just so you can show off to your soulless, middle-class friends that you brought me to your stupid prom." Then I danced with her.
3.) If you do dance, do not like it. When I danced, I made sure to continually express my disdain and deathly dudgeon, as I am master of the Glare, and I casted various spells of Magick negativity around the room using my thoughts. Also, wave your arms about slowly and watch them as if they were devil serpents, swirling around your head as you sink into the intestines of hell. That is the only acceptable way for a real goth to dance, which we will call "doom swirling".
After that, I obtained a goblet of Diet Dr. Pepper and retreated to the shadows, whereupon I glowered into the undulating masses of faceless American youth. That is what you must do as well, my invidious aborted babies of the dark, because Diet Dr. Pepper is the best.