Testing. . . Testing. . . Is this thing on?

I AM 36% PUNK.

Well, I may know what punk is, but... Okay
maybe some people think I am punk, but is
that enough? Nope.

I AM 62% GOTH.

Image and attitude are my paths to Goth-dom.
Graceful and scary. I am the Master, with
many slaves.

I AM 55% GEEK.

Nerd, Freak, Geek, Dweeb. Sound familiar?
That's okay, cause I will be the richest
person at my 15th year high-school reunion.
If a "con" isn't happening that weekend.

My, that was surprising. The goth one, that is -- I'm much more punk than goth when it comes down to it. Well, it's probably my glam-ness rubbing off.

. . . oh shit. I *am* really goth, or have been in the past. *Damnit*.

Val: You actually doubted this?

Romie: I listen to punk music! (gesturing) Look! The Ramones! The Clash! NoFX! The Pixies!

Val: Rasputina. Nine Inch Nails. Ozzy Ozbourne. The Cure.

Romie: Fuck! I tend to hang out with punks!

Val: Old-wave punks who've since gotten goth.

Romie and Val: Rory.

Val: And your idea of looking nice is to dye your hair, put it up in a chignon, wear a low-cut black shirt, powder your face, and put on exceptionally dark eye makeup.

Romie: That shirt was punk!

Val: Romie.

Romie: . . . but . . .

Val: Your idea of a good time is sitting around with a glass of wine reading Edward Gorey, talking about psychic vampirism, and watching David Lynch films.

Romie: . . .

Val: Look at your exgirlfriend, who wore a red vinyl corset dress to a formal ball.

Romie: (blown away) Point taken. (Tugs at sleeves in an attempt to hide the sharpie-drawn swirls all over her arms)

Snoozewalking

Sleepy day. Too pleasantly warm and too long 'til a vacation; nobody can stay awake. Between classes, I napped under the stairs of the economics building; the ground was thick with us, the escapees of the system. Warde's bone marrow no longer functions; he's tired too. Although he's my favorite professor, I cannot be upset, because today is a dream. Small woodland creatures collect at my feet. . . Squirrels have sneezed on me. . . Birds have flown into my hands.

(no subject)

She would later remark that she should have been warned by something in the air; though a breeze stirred the hairs on the plane of her forehead, the night somehow felt still -- wrapped in gauze and packaged in mothballs. It wasn't 'til later that she placed the feeling: the world was thrumming.