Many years ago, when I was but a young girl of sixteen, I made the journey that changed my life forever. I was a Cure fan, you see -and I still am, though these old, parched lips of mine rarely sing the sacred songs anymore. However, as that last sentence might indicate, I, along with several of my companions, did not view The Cure as a rock band so much as guiding light throughout our demented little lives, a source of joy in the bleak world of high school. Thus, whilst in the midst of a fit of utter insanity, it was decided that one of us had to make the ultimate trek- one of us had to journey to the house of the great one himself, Robert Smith, and let him know just how much we all loved him.

The details of how I managed to escape educational and home-life obligations and hop a plane to England are unimportant, as is the coincidence that as I write this, I am feeling very tired and uncreative. However, access to a plane and Anglophile heaven were eventually obtained, and I soon found myself in London. Upon arriving, I made my way quickly past the usual tourist traps, stopping only at the mandatory “Stations of the Cure”. These were rather nondescript landmarks only a true fan would know- mainly pubs, beauty salons, and more pubs. At the stations, I partook of the sacred drink and painted my face in the mandated manner of a blind circus clown. As the evening wore on and I continued onward, I drank some more of the sacred drink, snarled and tangled my hair until it possessed the appearance of the nest of a drug-addled bird, and had just a bit more of that wondrous drink. Finally, stumbling about the streets, I whined the words that had sung forth from the very mouth of the mighty one himself so many, many times- “I’m so old! Why doesn’t anyone love me?! Wah!”

I woke some time later to a pain in my head and a light drizzle falling about me. Coughing once or twice, I sat up, squinting at the house that had somehow appeared before me, desperately trying to remember what had transpired the evening before. Had I been witness to some glorious apparition, some vision that had left me in a state of awe-inspired incapacity, or had I partaken of just a bit too much of the sacred lager? While I was contemplating my situation, something that could be described as nothing less than a miracle occurred. As I sat transfixed, eyes wide and mouth agape, the door on the house in front of me opened. And lo! In the doorway there shone a magnificent light, and in the middle of that light there stood a shadow only an infidel would not recognize. I fell to my knees, trembling with wonder, awe, and yes, even fear. Was it really as it seemed? Had my god actually chosen to reveal himself to me, a lowly fan of but three years? Indeed, I knew not for sure, but as the shadow stepped forth and the outline became clear through the now driving rain, I saw, and I knew- Robert Smith had appeared to me. It seemed an eternity that he stood before me, all-knowing face gazing down upon me, skin the colour of death and eyes blazing. As I bowed low before him, eyes averted lest his shining brilliance be tarnished by my very presence, the crimson lips parted, and forth rang the hallowed words I remember to this day-

“Oi… get off my lawn, you little sod!”

And thus my pilgrimage was completed, more divinely than I could ever have dreamt possible. True, there was some rather nasty follow-up business involving the police and riot patrol, but once that all got sorted out and I was back home, I knew that my life had been laid out for me. In that one, glorious moment, I had seen and I had understood my goal. To this day, I have followed the teachings of the great one and have never, EVER allowed the little children of the neighborhood to step foot in my yard.