Steampunk is what happens when goths discover brown

As a teenager I went all Goth, but I wasn’t mopey enough.

I would pretend to be, but I’d end up making people laugh.

I was a goth girl in high school. Perhaps the powdered white face and the black lipstick were not the most attractive. I felt fabulous at the time but looking back, uh, probably not the best idea.

Bite me, Goth princess,” Shane called from the back.

“Not literally or anything.” “Maybe you should say that to Michael.” “Not funny, Eve,” Michael said. Eve raised her eyebrows and held her fingers up, measuring off about an inch. “Little bit,” she said.

The only vampires I’ve ever seen are the Goths trying to get a glimpse of Anne Rice’s house, who drink strawberry sodas and tell each other it’s blood.

Now there’s a sight you don’t see every day, huh? Two punked-out Goths throwing a Christmas party for sick children. (Doctor)

But I don’t think anybody with any self-respect would admit to being Goth

I was a dumpy teenager. My mum was a model and was all about looks, so I rebelled by going goth. It took me years of peeling back the onion to finally stop using make-up as a mask and feel comfortable in my skin.

They are called ‘Emos’ now, and before that they were ‘Goths.

‘ They didn’t have a name for it when I was one, but I was that black-wearing teenager and yes, I wore a little eyeliner.

I think the worst lie I ever told was, because my last name is Goth, I used to tell kids at school that I used to be related to ‘Van Gogh’ and when I turned 18, I would inherit all the fortune from the sunflower painting.

I was last in Rome in AD 540 when it was full of Goths and their heavy horses.

It has changed a great deal since then.

Don’t leave me, Rainbow Girl.” Rainbow Girl. Was that who I was? It seemed so long ago. I smiled faintly. “Remember the skirt I wore to Mallucé’s the night you told me to dress Goth?” “It’s upstairs in your closet. Never throw it away. It looked like a wet dream on you.