All the separate parts of me are ok, but put together it just came out all weird. Like putting A1 steak sauce on a banana.

April 23, 2010

I’m sorry, I can’t come to your pool party because I’m too lesbian.

I’m playing the “let’s guess my sexuality!” game this week. Again. I’m like a broken Magic Eight Ball. “Answer hazy. Ask again later, you fag.”

Thank god for Erika Moen. She does a lot of comics, most notably “DAR.” It’s on my links, check it out, especially if you’re a queer girl. They’re autobiographical, and strikingly poignant, while being cute and hysterical. They perfectly sum up my confusion.

Why don’t I make this my lesbian post, yeah? Honestly, the word “lesbian” scares me. LESBIAN. It sounds so… complicated. Like there are regulations to follow, a degree or two to get, maybe a blood transfusion? It has the same connotations to me as “fibromyalgia” or “biopsychosocial.” It’s alien. I don’t feel “lesbian,” but … I like girls.

I’ve always had my walls covered with beautiful women. The few men I’ve been attracted to in the past five years (2) were increasingly feminine, physically and emotionally. I had my first girl crush when I was 15, encompassing a few years, and eclipsing my boyfriends. It still drifts around, I admit. But now there are other girls, and now that I recognize what it is that I’m feeling when I see a message from a lovely girl in my inbox (a flutter in my tummy, tight throat, I bounce in my seat and wiggle my butt), I’m more aware of it. God, how weird! I like girls!

On another note, I’m spending all my waking hours (fueled by triple-bag darjeeling chai) studying the insane and being the lovable neighborhood gay cashier. I’ve got a lesbro (see: male faghag) to exchange pleasantries and physical abuse with, so life is good.


(he is a lovely man)

And I bought a paisley umbrella. Probably the greatest decision of my life.


your fag-ette,



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