Since I can't go to real goth club, I set up pseudo-goth club in my pink home office in the evenings. I light candles, burn incense, and play the industrial channel on Slacker radio whilst sipping an alcohol-free ('cause I'm sobersaurus over 3 months) 'Tropical Painkiller.' As Nine Inch Nails bumps over the speakers, I close my eyes and wonder if I, too, had hurt myself on purpose. No one had done it but me.
I wouldn't get a nose job would I? A boob job? How far would I go? Everyone had braces, right? Everyone defaced themself to get them. I start to cry into my tropical painkiller that's not doing the trick. Maybe I had made a big mistake following a herd I'd missed long ago. I felt a salty tear slip over my lip and into a wound in my mouth. But it's too late now.