Of course, I never responded. But every time she saw me in the hallway, she would shoot me that half-playful, half-evil grin and say something along the lines of “hey, curly, how you doing?” I suppose she thought she was freaking me out, but deep down, I loved the attention (god knows, she was the only girl in the sixth grade who ever acknowledged my existence.) So, deep in my prefrontal cortex, that type of female – the one who wears dresses right out of a Bauhaus music video, has earrings shaped like demonic stalactites and whose idea of dolling up means putting on a slightly less faded Slayer tee shirt – became my go-to female ideal. Forget tans, forget the blindingly blonde hair and forget that all too boring “girl next door” look – I was forever enamored by the girls who looked more Morticia Addams than Christina Aguilera.
Throughout high school and college, I more or less homed in on all of the pale girls who wore Invader Zim shirts and hated their parents. In fact, I soon learned that there are indeed five genuses of goth girl, each with her very own idiosyncratic quirks: