To who I thought I could be, I am tired of comparing myself to you.
Keep growing. Keep waiting for that day that fabled teenage sex-drive kicks in for you and you find the opposite sex irresistible. Keep waiting.
We grow up inundated with messages about how there is someone for everyone. These messages are horseshit.
Someone scolds me, saying I should be grateful to have such an accepting mother. I could write a hundred lists about why she is a great parent, none of which include loving me “despite” being gay.
Sometimes I feel like a giant living in a playpen, which not only fulfills some sort of weird childhood Tommy Pickles fantasy but also serves as a wonderful contrast to the sobering “bills/responsibilities/loneliness” aspects of living by oneself.
Comparatively, I got off lucky. The average 419 scam victim loses $6,542, whereas I “only” lost $2,650.
For those who have lost a father, Father’s Day is a day for everyone else to remember what you think about everyday. But for next year, I say: go on — take your dad for granted. I give you permission to do nothing special for him, to treat him exactly like you always have.
High school is not better. The Neanderthals all have deep voices, all the better to woo the ladies, and your queer little chortle hasn’t nudged a bit. You worry because you’ve got hair in all the right places and you’re taller than everyone else and, is this it? This is what you were waiting for?
When you’ve never dealt with death before, you’re not actively seeking out the truths about grief, not trying to retain the stories of other people’s experiences. All of this changes, however, when you have had someone close to you die (or in my case, almost die).
This was not how it was supposed to work. I never set out to be half of that couple you hear about. The ones that because of high rents or long leases or the great dysfunction are forced to live with each other long after their relationship has expired. Yet here I am. Freshly twenty-seven and living with my ex-boyfriend.