The other night, I tried to start a fight with Henry because we’re not precious like Robert and Mary, but he didn’t take the bait. Anyway, I hadn’t listened to this song IN A MINUTE and the feels came crashing into me like the waves that Henry will never frolic in with me because he’s Henry and he doesn’t frolic or much of anything relationshippy, for that matter.
I never actually wrote about my experience meeting The Cure in Australia back in 2000, and I’ve been considering possibly transcribing my vacation journal entries from that trip on here, which I’m sure wouldn’t be embarrassing and a shit-covered cringefest AT ALL considering I was 20 and a million times more annoying than I am today at 40 and I am still pretty fucking annoying, so chew on that fat for a minute and get back to me.
I also have actual video footage of when I met them but it’s on an 8mm and I need to get that digitized at some point so I can blast social media with the excruciating 2 minutes of me stuttering and stammering in King Robert Smith’s face. It was…really something. Definitely not something that kept me up at night.
It’s weird to think that I was in a country that far away, pre-smartphone age, for a full week, and managed to come back alive when, at the age of 40, I can barely go to the store by myself. People who know this version of me usually think I’m fucking with them when I’m like, “This one time, in goth-rock band camp…”
(I actually had a weird moment in a taxi though on the way to the Canberra airport, where I 100% thought I was about to get raped, and I am not even exaggerating a little bit. That was a strange time.)
Well, if you’d be interested in reading something like (not an almost-taxi rape, but The Cure thing), then perhaps that will happen soon because I am in the mood for getting nostalgic, y’all. I get like this sometimes.