When I was a teenager, I desperately wanted to be a goth so very bad. Having controlling parents, however, the closest I could get away with were Cure cassette tapes and late-night visits to area diners, always filled with dark-souled youths smoking cloves that would never get to know me in the slightest; I’d sit in the corner, reading an utterly pretentious book, hoping someone—anyone—would talk to me.
But they never did.