One of the greatest accomplishments in most men’s lives is managing to impress a Goth Girl. While one might master the language of whalebone and crinoline, and the difference between royal velvet, back alley velour, and endless shame, it still might not be enough. I tried once, and failed. The dates in the cemetery were nice, and my Nightmare Before Christmas socks went over very well, but we just didn’t mesh. What it ultimately came down to was our taste in poetry: she loved iambic pentameter, and I just put my foot in my mouth a lot. Eventually she just gave me the boot, and not any of the ones I’d hoped for. I built a shrine for her, knowing that the only way to her cold heart was a display of frozen hearts and roses, made of watermelon cucumber mint cranberry sorbet. Something simple, to roll off the tongue. She’ll come crawling back, and I’ve got my ear to where I boarded up the floor for when she does.
The Ice Cream Club 
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