Coffee makes the bitch at my office tolerable. I can slap on a fake smile and pretend she’s not a horrible human being, and I can listen to Nicki Minaj without feeling like a sellout. I can crank out bullshit assignments at 8 a.m. Coffee makes me feel like fucking Grace Jones as I walk down the office hallway. I might work for the government, but I’m the biggest legal drug buyer since ugly hippies discovered salvia (RIP).
One of the most terrifying experiences of my pre-teen years was sitting in the movie theater with my friends just before the previews for Jurassic Park were set to begin. Despite the fact that I had been super excited to see the film during the weeks leading up to its release, I became – secretly – scared shitless, sitting there in the dark, waiting for it to start…
“Did you write this newspaper?” he asked and held it up for me. “No,” I said. “That’s funny. Because some students told me they were confident it was you who wrote it.” “Yeah, I heard that too. I think it’s because I write for the school newspaper, so they just assumed.” “Uh huh?” “Yeah.” “Okay, I’m going to give you one more chance to tell me the truth. Did you write this?”
Being gay is super confusing. Just go on Craigslist and look at all the M4M ads that ask for a “straight-acting masculine dude.” Um, excuse me? If you want someone who’s straight maybe you should just roofie a frat boy. No one should feel ashamed for being femme and a certain kind of gay should not be favored over another.
But people are more complicated than just being this or that. I may be a pervert in this way but that doesn’t mean I am a pervert in all ways. Which is to say, our assumption that there is a real self, some defining nugget of self truth, shuts down the complexity of what it means to be a human being. This insistence on truth, on authenticity, becomes a sledgehammer of judgement.