-the straight actor Jared Leto will on Sunday win the Best Supporting Actor statuette for a portrayal of a transgender woman-
Hmm I wonder what is wrong with this sentence.
My denim is damp from sweating through the hike down from the hotel. I’m going to the convenience store or the drug store to buy chips and diet coke. The streets are empty. I step around a sidewalk chalked red with devil signs. The convenience store is closed from devils and attacks, the door is splattered with blood. I go to the drug store. The drug store is open. There are more things to look at in the drug store than I intended to buy. I remember in high school hanging in stores with idiot friends making fun of the things on the shelves, hoping someone cared what we were thinking. It is now impossible to imagine a conflict significant enough between my internal values and those here displayed to even merit a comment. That is: my voice could never rise to their level. I live in the shadows of giants who are people with their shit together enough to get married to each other and care about jobs where they approve new gradients for thin cardboard packaging. I wonder what being straight would be like. I picture myself a billionaire. I picture what being cis and straight would be and I see a city skyline from an opulent hotel balcony. It’s the Seattle skyline from the book Virtual Light because I wasted my brains being a dumbass nerd instead of learning anything helpful. I’m drinking out of a two liter on the hike back up the mountain. I think: I wish I was a gay and lesbian in the 1990s. I think no, idiot, you wish you were a beautiful, fictional gay and lesbian in a movie from the 1990s. I think: I wish I had done more gay things with my body in the 1990s. The road turns off into dirt and everything is covered with kudzu. I think: I should write garbage and show it to people until showing it to people no longer feels significant and I can just exist. I hate editing. I hate curation. I need creating to be a testament that I am not being slowly erased. I live in an abandoned hotel in my home state, it’s shitty and extremely haunted but the haunting has kept up its condition. I barricade myself in my room. It’s freezing despite summer, thank god. I think about things in the walls, detached hands in the walls hovering, scraping, waiting to phase through and strangle me. No, that’s from Zelda. At any rate, the building begins to softly howl. My shirt clings to my breasts, finally cold enough to be annoying. I wear a quilt instead. I get out a legal pad and sketch up ideas for a story. “Gay and transgender bodies and people who have them and are fucking but are bored doing it.” I feel fortunate that boredom/fucking is a viable fictional subgenre but can only channel it inauthentically while I, more accurately, experience frustrated sadness during sex. I wonder if I could learn to like porn again. I think of a body I used to know pretty well that was slim and shaved and slightly muscular and I want to beat him up and fuck him but I know he’d never had let me, or anybody else for that matter. Something emits metallic vibrations in the hall. I used to kill demons with my crew when we were kids and all of us were closeted and couldn’t even fuck each other when we were soaked with devil blood and cum from Hell and demon pheromones. We feigned straight relationships or else staved off inquiries about our absence of straight relationships and treaded water while our three second windows to feel slightly at home in the world closed. I hope they’re also fags or dykes or fags and dykes by now, for what it’s worth, and I hope getting there has meant a lot to them. I hope it got better. The noise in the hall gets worse and I go out and get into a fight. Youtube “Silent Hill gameplay” to see what that looks like. Now I’ll have to stay up all night or until things die down. I have to learn to make identities as weird as whatever mine is seem as cool as cis queer identities seemed to 1990s me. It won’t do anyone any good. I’m a terrible artist and an OK ghost killer. I’m stress eating. I finish the entire bag of chips and I’ve moved on to canned vegetables out of the can. If I kill demons freelance I still won’t have health insurance and I’ll die from whatever in 5 minutes.
i can’t believe it’s 2014 and there’s still no gay romantic comedy about vin diesel and dwayne johnson falling in love
They raise a gaggle of kids undercover working for a gov’t agency together
Coming Soon to Theaters:
Between a Rock and Some Hard Pecs
MRAs, which are usually white middle class men, love to complain about false rape accusations. They fail to realize that of the ~0.2% of rape cases where an innocent man was charged, practically all of them were black. In fact, they refuse to see a correlation between these two things, and get angry when you point it out.