If it’s wrong to be amused by your significant other’s suffering, then I don’t want to be right.
Mine went out to a goth night.
First, dressing like you’re twenty when you’re thirty is no less creepy than dressing like you’re ten when you’re twenty.
Second, he’s pretending it’s for work, but he bleached his hair, wore his favorite clothes and even put on make-up.
I’m a girl. We invented this act. I know what date/event excitement looks like.
As much as I’d like to be asleep, I’m awake, because the baby is awake and I have to drive a friend to the train station in six hours. So, I googled tonight’s event. As his editor, I’m going to be writing an article about the place, anyway.
It’s not a goth event. I have no idea where he got that idea.
It’s a rap/hip-hop event.
He’s going to be the only white guy, who happens to be wearing make-up, at a rap/hip-hop event.
It’s almost sad – one of two things will happen; either he’ll come back to me in pieces, or he’ll come back and tell me what a great goth night it was, and then I’ll cut him into pieces.
Originally published at The Pandemonium Project. You can comment here or there.