My Boyfriend Will Fuck You Up

I have a new boyfriend, his name is The Boyfriend, and he is thoroughly goth. He has a wall in his room he and I like to call the Wall of Goth Rock. The Boyfriend has a collection of CDs that, contained in a fancy CD folder, could be used as a blunt weapon in all its 150-page glory. He lives in the Catholic district of Utah's Brooklyn, approximately twenty or twenty-five miles away from me, but I have been to his house three times in the past two weeks. He and I sit in his room and we eat orphans. I'm sure you wouldn't understand.

The Boyfriend and I met in Biology during some freaky experiment neither of us understood. He came over to shake my hand and compliment my hatred of orphans, and we found ourselves shaking hands for quite some time. He was wearing a Bauhaus shirt. For some reason, even at The New School [of Goth kids and the Misunderstood], Bauhaus was relatively unknown. I was lucky enough to be born to my mother. The Boyfriend and I decided we had to have tea sometime. From then on, we knew that we'd hook up somehow.

The Boyfriend just so happens to be gay. I highly recommend, for any high-school girl, a gay boyfriend. Though, strangely, I have not yet found the leather-and-stainless-steel bondage gear in his room yet. I think it may be tucked away in his closet somewhere. The Boyfriend is a very good kisser, Internet. I want you all to know that, while you are pleasuring yourselves in the back of a Toyota Corolla, I am kissing my gay boyfriend's deliciously soft lips and sitting on a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bedspread. Think of us together the next time you wet your right hand with Dr. Pepper spit, readying the Kleenex box and the radio.

I was over at The Boyfriend's house today to give him his Christmas present, a Create-A-Comfort-Object Bunny I so vaguely named Huey Lewis and the News. I had attached a homemade patch for The Cure onto Huey Lewis and the News' jacket. For funsies. And that should tell you just how goth The Boyfriend is, that I attached a Cure patch onto his plush bunny's denim jacket. Anyhow, as we were lying there on his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles bedspread, we discussed the damn populace of our school. There is one girl whom we dubbed PETAbitch. Any typical conversation with her is a tenuous connection to animal cruelty, and then an argument. We also discussed the Stereotypical Scenester Kid, who I'm almost sure is somehow reading this post as I type it, and will kill me for it. His name is not important. He is every trend, every stereotype of a young, gay scenester, thrown into one disgusting existence. The Boyfriend and I talk more about the Stereotypical Scenester Kid than we do politics. And isn't that perfectly American of us?

The Boyfriend is very possibly perfect, and I'm going to feel terrible if I ruin this entire thing. I was reading on Emily's blog today about her most recent break-up over the fact that she is not okay. Of all the things to cause a break-up, I worry most about my own mental state. If The Boyfriend were to read any posts on this blogosphere tagged with "Depression," he would immediately catch a glimpse at the cloudy abyss of destruction and utter horror that is my mind.
Shh.
Don't tell him.