seaslug

A goth called, Friday

Dogs smelled something suspicious around a hot-dog stand at Cox Arena, said Good Morning America. Statements like that, begging for ridicule, are why I don't watch television news. Makes my head asplode.

To work, yesterday, I wore a green tie, green socks, and my Spiderman vs. the Green Goblin Underoos. Women think you're going to snog them silly while hanging from the ceiling in a mask, wearing those. No, really! No? Really....

To celebrate St. Pat's Day I decided to have a traditional Irish supper. I went to Olive Garden. However, I told them to just give me an uncooked potato and a small flock of sheep. Frankly, I stuffed myself in a pitiful display of gluttony.

"More salad?"
"Just keep it comin' until I say stop or fall out of my chair."

I hate to sound like a sick pervert, even though I am and the truth will out, but why is it the hairiest legged boys who wear shorts in winter? I suppose they don't get cold with all that fur. One twig-like specimen looked like he was walking around on two pipe cleaners. They're like dysfunctional fauns in a plastic and drywall forest; cloven hooves hidden in New Balance sneakers. I expected pan pipes at any moment.

All of the cell phone kiosks, last night, were staffed by great fat clerks with heavy-lidded eyes, sporting goatees. One of them was a woman.

I'm growing weary of the goths. Most of them seem to have only the one outfit, although Dracula goth, with the sharp triangular bangs plastered to his bowling ball forehead, found a pork-pie hat to go with his bat-wing like dusty black coat. Also, someone wandered through wearing a brilliant red frock coat with huge black buttons. He looked like Oscar Wilde's coach footman.

I love the names they give themselves. "Hey, Spike!" called one. I crossed my fingers and prayed someone would holla back, "Yes, Buffy?"

A tall goth with a shock of bright orange hair, his natural color, could not stop calling out, in a booming voice, the name of his companion, a young Malcolm McDowell sort in a sheer, brilliant pink see-through shirt, black denim gloves, and wicked, wicked dark eyes. "Spider! Let's go over there, Spider! Come over here, Spider!" The tall, orange haired goth also couldn't keep his hands off Spider, touching and hugging him constantly. Brokeback Gothic.

A disappointing night.
  • Current Mood: cabin fever
You are just jealous that someone else has the name that you secretly covet while wearing your underoos. ADMIT IT! Here, Spider Spider Spider!



For the record, most of the people at the t-mobile kiosk are pretty okay people, I swear!
Greetings.

I just ranomly stumbled upon your journal, and want to tell you that I really enjoy it. It's beautiful; very refreshing. :)