I Can’t Deal With Goth Highschoolers
As I was walking out of the bookstore, I accidentally bumped into someone in the parking lot. It wasn’t a vehicular collision or anything, just me looking down at my cool Airwalks and admiring how dope the white laces glowed in the sunshine against the black nubuck material. What this other person was looking at, I don’t know, but I walked right into her. And walked into her hard! With an “oops,” I dropped my bag of comics, and nearly fell backwards. In the blacktop heat, I squinted to see what the hell I bumped into, and of course, to see if anyone else had seen how stupid I must have looked.
My face was already contorted in the familiar position of that someone who is about to half-heartedly apologize to another person, and my mouth was full of temporary remorse. I was reaching for eye contact, so I could spew the words of regret all over the parking lot and make made a quick dash to my donkey. However once the eye contact was made, the words were accidentally swallowed, and choked upon, as if they went down the wrong pipe. Stuck in my lungs with my throat seized with panic, the words were unavailable as my victim of carelessness was staring me down: a wannabe Goth donut.
She couldn’t have been any taller than 5′, 1″, yet she was gigantic! Short red and black spiked hair crowned her pear shaped nut. Black designer frames with blue and red lenses were surrounded by earrings that looked like homemade crosses that dangled upside-down from freckled lobes. Below multiple chins of varying weight and acne placement was a studded dog collar from which hung another cross. On the feet of the corpulent boxer were red flamed black boots that extended so far up her wide calves that no less that six feet of laces had to be holding the tongue in place. Underneath and draped by what looked to be a Gap skirt cut short and torn about at random, were red and black leggings, stretched and stained, stripes faded and blurry. Her short, tyrannosaurs hooks were pretty much bare, except for one studded gauntlet that looked as if it came straight of the set of The Road Warrior. And joining all the appendages together at the middle was a sleeveless, black hoodie that had, in red cursive embroidery, the words “I hate everybody.”
“Is that your Vespa back in the parking lot,” the Baby-eater sneered. At first, I was amazed. How could she, by looking at me, just guess that I was the owner of the tiny bike? Was it that obvious? But then I remembered that I had V E S P A blazing all over my chest, and a motorcycle helmet dangling from my over-shoulder bag. So, yeah, I guess it was obvious that I was the rider of the two-wheeled scoot, but before I could admit it, she bared her uneven teeth again to speak.
“Because I almost knocked it over with my truck,” the she-beast continued. “Besides, are you even supposed to be parking that out in the lot? I don’t think you are. Why aren’t you using a bike rack?”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t know her, nor did I want to, but she’s off asking me all these questions, and I couldn’t tell if they were rhetorical or not. Yet she just stood there, one eyebrow cocked, as if waiting for a snappy response by me to justify her getting felt up and insulted in the burning heat of the bookstore parking lot. As if she was getting off on starting friction with a complete stranger. I was so off guard, kind of confused, definitely a little ticked off, and my brain wasn’t working. It wasn’t like I couldn’t think of anything, but I couldn’t decide on anything to say or do. In my mind, the levy of control had collapsed and the flood waters of ideas were pouring all over I was imagining running away, running over to her bumper-stickered Rav4 and smashing out the windows with my helmet, running to my Vespa and then running it over her. I imagined winning the lottery and what I would buy first, a new car or another lottery ticket. I pondered about writing up a formula that would equate the percentages of flower candy bought per time needed for the entire package to have been devoured by one person, versus two people, and how much value could be placed upon each individual candy, you know, for when your friends are over and they want to eat some. The swarm of thoughts was ever growing as my time to respond without looking like a retard was ever shrinking. The clock was counting down. I was approaching the zero hour and just could not think of anything say, and that’s how it went until the buzzer in the back of my head went off, and my brain kicked out my auto-response:
“What?” I asked. Of course, it came out louder, and sounded directionless and empty, but that was all I could say. Somehow, possibly through the awkwardness of how it reverberated out my chest, she seemed to be startled a bit. She kind of jumped, but before I could externally smile the way I was feeling under the skin, she recovered.
“It’s just another fad.” She smirked, turned then waddled away.
“A fad?” I screamed inside. “Like not cutting up brand new clothes so they don’t look as if you were attacked by homeless vandal looking for sausage? Or is it a fad as in enjoying some sunshine every once in a while? No? Perhaps you mean a fad like going on a diet?!” I was kinda upset, and wanted to let her have it, especially with my helmet, but all could say was:
“Stupid 3D glasses.”
She turned around to face me, I hopped on the scoot and went back to the job.
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