The thing is, it was my idea. Our idea, really. But I was actively involved. It wasn't some random dorm assignment, where you arrive at your freshman college room, all perky and glistening with golden hopes and dreams only to find that your roommate, Raven, is busy trying to paint her nails Black Death and fix her mohawk at the same time as properly ripping her fishnets and your golden hopes and dreams sort of droop and sag a little like sad old woman boobs (sorry old women; it's totally natural and I love our bodies and I've read "The Beauty Myth" and thought it was brilliant but I also thought saggy boobs was a good metaphor).

Nope. I was totally on board for the idea of living with members of a goth industrial band during my junior year of college. My boyfriend was (and still is) part of the goth industrial band, and the house had room, and it was close to campus, and affordable, and I figured what the hell, it's just a band. How bad could it be? What's the worst that could happen?

...

One of these things is not like the others. One of these things just doesn't belong:

Goth industrial band. Pet tarantulas. Loud drunken band practice nights with fire-breathers (no I am not making this up). One shy English major.

This is the story of my belonging in a house with a goth band.