I was a teenage goth. Absolute Dr. Marten boot-stomping, black fingernail-painting, absinthe-swigging, hoodie-rocking, Anne Rice-reading, pastel-hating, SPF 125-smearing, Nine Inch Nails-worshipping, parent-shaming goth.
To mother’s delight, I’ve shed most of the trappings from that era — save my enthusiasm for graveyards. Wherever I travel I seek them out, and since burial is among the few ubiquitous cultural customs, they aren’t too hard to find. No matter where you go, chances are someone died before you got there.