She once told me that she was a vampire. She played BloodRayne a little too often and copied the mannerisms of what's-her-name from Underworld. She claimed to drink absinthe, but I think she just saw it in Van Helsing, the one with Hugh Jackman. I don't know, maybe she wasn't obsessed with being a vampire, maybe she just wanted to be Kate Beckinsale.
This was the prime of the early-aughts commercialized mall-goth. A time when whatever people my age call “alternative” was being dragged behind the horse carriage of consumption to die the slow death of exsanguination in the town square. Also, people my age are probably too old to care about such things.
But... Some of them do.
Viciously.
You can find them in bars, having a miserable time because the DJ played a song that was more Post-punk than classic Goth. I like to imagine a world where we all allow each other our peculiarities if it makes for a happier existence, but I can't imagine anyone who feels the need to berate strangers for not knowing Bauhaus deep cuts as “happy.”
We all need something we feel ownership of. Enveloped in. Tribalism keeps us feeling safe and warm. It might disgust them to think so, but the aging alt-moms rolling their eyes on Thursday goth nights have a lot in common with Vampire Girl. They need to feel different, they need to feel the same, and they need to hold onto a tribe, even if it doesn't exist.
And, for both of them, the absinthe is just for show.
Robin Sinclair (they/them) is a queer, trans writer of poetry, fiction, and nonfiction. Their poetry can be found in various journals, including Trampset, Luna Luna Magazine, and Pidgeonholes. Their fiction and nonfiction can be found in Black Telephone Magazine, The Daily Drunk, and Across The Margin. RobinSinclairBooks.com