Wow, I was on a full-on whinge last time, wasn’t I? Sorry about that. Blame the weather. Go on, blame it. I intend to.
It’s hot here. As in, Tarmac-melting hot. 38 degrees. Certainly way hotter than my body temperature. Now, at this time of year, it’s usually safe for me to come out of my hidey-hole and embrace the autumnal lusciousness.
Only there’s very little autumn about, and even less lusciousness.
As I’ve said before, clothing is an issue for an everyday vampire. There are two choices: Cover up/overheat or wear less/burn. There is a third option: Hide. Guess which one I opt for.
Of course, there are occasions when I do have to leave the house, so wearing pale colours is my only option. And when I say pale colours, of course I mean white. I. am. not. going. to. wear. pink. Ever.
I’ve had people inform me that goths shouldn’t wear white. You know the types… So I just smile and let them carry on with their rant. Because that’s what you humans do, isn’t it (present company excepted)? They see this metaphorical snapshot of you and launch into a judgment based on that fleeting glimpse.
It’s like, the other day, someone slapped my wrist for making a joke about something that has, in the past beleaguered me and caused me a lot of personal anguish. ‘You can’t make jokes about that.’ he said, ‘You don’t know their story. You don’t know what they’ve been through.’ And you don’t know what I’ve been through, so shut up.
So, because I’m ‘so obviously a goth’, I’m not allowed to wear white. Okay, mate, whatever you say. But it’s not like I can tell them the truth, is it? I bet you’d like to be a fly on the wall if I did that?
So I’ll wear what I want. It’s quite sweet, because when small children see me, they’re convinced they’ve just seen an angel.
But conveying your personality to the world via the medium of fabric (and ink) is such a human thing, isn’t it?
How often have you seen some poor teen out there, swelteringly encased coffin-like in black leather despite hot weather warnings, with so much melted black eyeliner on that they’ve stopped looking gorgeously waifish and now just look like an anxious Alice Cooper?
To all the gothlings out there:
You are allowed to forego the black leather, you know.
Gothling: No, I must wear head-to-toe tight black leather. How else will ordinary people know what I am?
Ordinary people: You’re an idiot. We just guessed.
See you in A&E. Heatstroke.
Oh, and going off at a tangent (so what’s new?) There is that one staple that the snapshot-judgement-jumpers always pounce on me for.
I don’t have any. Nope, not one. Oh, I mean, I love getting the odd henna tattoo when I go on holiday. Like memories, they fade…
Well, I made an interesting discovery the other day. I can’t actually have them. They won’t take.
You read that right.
They won’t take.
I know, crazy, eh? Now, before I get started, Tattoo 101, as they say. In much the same way that some believe that chips (=fries) come from plastic bags in the freezer, many people believe that the only way to get a tattoo is to visit a tattoo parlour. Which means if you were a sailor living 400 years ago, you were screwed. Let’s get the principle straight. sharp object+ink, piercing skin= tattoo. I know. My mates used to do it in class. Usually Maths (compasses!).
One guy I know was trying to do “Unforgettable Annie” (his current girlfriend’s name; seriously, he should have just had a ‘fill-in-the-blank’). Unfortunately, the poor lad’s pain threshold wasn’t that high, so he got as far as ‘Unforget‘ and passed out. She dumped him. But he never did forget her, so…
Anyway, this is why I (and probably anyone born a vampire) can’t have tattoos. Again, please let me know if you happen to be the exception to the rule. I was drawing with one of those lovely free-running ink pens (sharp object+ink: still with me?) and, distracted by someone talking to me, I rammed the pen into the lid with a little more force than usual. Of course, it wasn’t the lid, it was my thumb.
It bled like a pig. And then stopped. And a couple of hours later, it was healed. As usual. But I had a black spot there. Oh great, I thought. An accidental tattoo. And it looks like a blackhead. Wonderful.
Until the next day. To cut a long story short (too late), my thumb spontaneously opened up, spat the ink out, and closed up again. I wish I’d filmed it now.
And that’s why vampires (well, born ones, anyway) don’t have tattoos.
Do you want a moral-of-the-story? Ych. It’s the same as ever. Don’t judge people when you look at them. Or, actually, just don’t judge. Full stop.
“I have that within which passeth show. These but the trappings and the suits of woe.”
Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 2, Page 4
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