My last stop was Simon & Schuster. There, I met with a cute, charming gay guy and a warm, kind, straight man whose face was 70% beard and glasses. Together, we feasted on LOLs until we all ODed and had to go to Beth Israel from a LOL overdose. The next week, they offered me a book deal and I was ecstatic.
Things don’t have to be so fucking hard all the time.
See your parents through a very limited lens. Think that they are here to teach you, to answer the phone when you have a question about a suspicious mole on your neck or an ache in your belly.
Being gay means accepting that, one day, you could be left behind by the ones you love. Let me explain. When you’re in your twenties, your straight girlfriends are practically your other half.
This is the nature of being in your twenties. It’s nearly impossible to have all the boxes checked, unless you’re one of those RARE BREED OF TYPE-A PSYCHOS THAT DOES.
I text him the next morning, “Nice to meet you.” He writes back an emoji of a red balloon.
This is how I picture Lana: a cool, disaffected girl who would smoke cigarettes with you in the parking lot of your high school, a girl who was the first to lose her virginity in her group of friends, a girl who was never particularly ambitious but things just happened to her, things that everyone else wished for and worked so hard to get but couldn’t.
My life was going 120 MPH, except it was actually going in slow-motion because I was sitting in front of a computer screen 12 hours a day clicking refresh, refresh, refresh.
“I need to be with someone who isn’t afraid to look stupid,” he finally said. “Otherwise, I just feel stupid.”
They were too busy shooting up a drug I like to call Single Person Heroin. Its street name is Tinder and it comes in the form of a dating app that allows you to peruse the profiles of nearby singles.