My parents raised me well, but sometimes I wish my mother had taught me to be “girly.” I was urged to ride bikes and play with the Ninja Turtle action figures I preferred over the Barbies and similar pink trappings…
It was hard to realize that I was the only person I knew in New York that didn’t really want to be here; harder still to book the flight and make the plans necessary to move away.
As a teen, posters of the bright-eyed and slightly grizzled punk rock vocalist had adorned my walls. I was taken aback when we were introduced. Though he’d been sober for years, it was clear that substance abuse had taken its toll.
Could I dabble like “Michael” without becoming William?
I can’t defend the Boy Scouts, especially not when I know there is a better-run youth organization out there, founded merely two years after their homophobic brethren became official.
It’s hard not to chuckle at the near-ubiquity of essays citing the horrors of being trapped in the Friend Zone. The stories I’ve seen are, with few exceptions, penned by men — as if it is impossible to believe women can be turned down for sex, too.