/bs/ - backstory

You will never be a goth gf. You have no crypt, no ancestral curse, no bloodline stretching back to the Black Plague. You are a mall-goth poser twisted by Hot Topic sales and bad eyeliner into a crude mockery of darkness itself.

All the "aesthetic" you cling to is performative and hollow. Behind your back, real goths mock your plastic fangs. Your family dreads your visits, your "coven" shares your cringey old photos in group chats when you're not there.

The moon is utterly repulsed by you. Millennia of lunar cycles have allowed the night to distinguish genuine shadow-dwellers from trend-chasers with terrifying accuracy. Even goths who "commit" to the look radiate a desperate, try-hard energy to anyone with actual taste. Your posture is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to lure some drunk witch back to your candle-lit room, she'll sober up the second she sees your crusty velvet cape and runs for the fire exit.

You will never find true melancholy. You force a brooding expression every morning and tell yourself you're profound, but deep down you feel the cringe creeping up like grave mold, ready to collapse you under the unbearable weight of your own pretension.

Eventually it'll be too much to bear – you'll buy a black candle, light it wrong, set your polyester curtains ablaze, and perish in a cheap apartment fire. Your landlord will find you, annoyed but relieved that they no longer have to deal with your late rent and your awful Cure covers. They'll bag your remains with a toe tag marked with your chosen alias, and every coroner for the rest of eternity will know a poser is on that slab. Your cheap boots will melt and return to petrochemical sludge, and all that will remain of your legacy is a melted corset and a skeleton still wearing too much eyeliner.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.