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• Make The Goth Girl Laugh Face

Make The Goth Girl Laugh Face

Spam or misleading text Submit Cancel. 0. Credit Audrey Reid I still have no idea who that red-haired eighth grader was, but she impacted my life in ways she couldn’t possibly fathom. Picture it: metro Atlanta, circa 1997. I’m a fresh-faced sixth grader getting used to the rigors of junior high.

Middle school, being that terrible, awkward time in life when you experience all the newfound joys of puberty, wasn’t exactly the easiest transition for me. It was especially tough since I went to a school that was about 50 percent lower class white sociopaths, 40 percent lower class black sociopaths and 10 percent really stuck-up rich white kids who got the shaft during the last county rezonings. There weren’t a lot of cliques on campus, but of the few that were, what intrigued me most was how the groups seemed to exist sans the grade level boundaries.It's mostly about personality when one really comes down to it. She still has interests, and a brain, and a wicked sense of humour, and on and on and on. She's still a girl, and probably a wonderful one at that- the only difference is, there's more to love than your usual thinner goth girl.

Some girls may be sensitive about it, so be considerate. Check out Make the Goth Girl Laugh 3 Available Now! By @pawfeather on @deviantART pawfeather.deviantart.com/art/Make-the-G oth-Girl-Laugh.If you were a sixth grade jock, you hung out with the seventh grade jocks and if you were a seventh grade spoiled princess, you hung out with the spoiled eighth grade princesses.

The in-group mobility always fascinated me especially since I was pretty much relegated to existence outside any of them. I was too bourgeoisie for the self-described “rednecks,” too proletariat for the nerds and too saintly for all of the bad kids – you know, the ones that were in that weird interphase between making kids involuntarily eat Play Doh during elementary recess and getting arrested for trying to rob a liquor store with a Super Soaker while ditching high school. It was in the sixth grade that I was introduced to a certain – Fashion?– that has since become my premier aesthetic quirk. All guys have a type – some are into your standard breastaurant waitress mold, others are into the tatted up neo-pin-up template, and others are all about the artsy-fartsy nerd chic – and it was here, I suppose, that I developed mine: the all-American goth chick. Now, at the time, we didn’t call them “goths.” In fact, we didn’t even have an applicable term for the people, of both genders, who wore all black, donned spiky jewelry and wore three pounds of eyeliner to school everyday. Some called them “the alternative kids,” some called them “skaters” (that none of them owned skateboards, seemingly, meant very little) but by and large, the other students referred to them as either “the freaks” or “the weirdos.” All the other kids – even before Columbine – were absolutely terrified of them. Rumors spread quickly: they were all part of a Satanic cult that ate babies.

They hung out together on the weekends and did needle drugs and practiced black magic spells. They all chainsawed hobos to death behind Costco while blaring Marilyn Manson.Granted, the worst things they actually did was smoke cigarettes outside the movie theater and maybe shoplift a few malt liquors, but they embraced the paranoia and fear the other students fostered for them. In a way, it made them above the junior high totem, making them a more powerful caste system force than even the preppiest of preps. Sure, everybody made fun of them behind their backs, but nobody had the chutzpah to do it to their faces. Hey, we had all seen The Craft, and we knew what was in store for us if we pissed them off. And there was something about that I found inherently appealing.

While everybody else found the goth girls to be terrifying, I found them oddly alluring. Others thought their morbid, sadsack dispositions was the ultimate turnoff, but I thought it was inexplicably entrancing.Others saw them and wanted to run screaming the other opposite direction; I fantasized about running towards them, and being welcomed into their herd with loving, polka dot warmer-draped arms. So, that eighth grader I was talking about earlier?

She was probably the first major crush of my adolescence.Even now, I have no clue what her name was, but I will never forget seeing her at the bus stop for the first time. She was clad in fishnet arm bands, was rocking the kind of boots I had only seen in Hellraiser movies and her makeup was about one shade away from being a quasi-offensive appropriation of Kabuki theater.