The stuff dreams are made of

Today in niche genres of joke that I can never get enough of and will probably still be secretly thinking about four years later

why don’t you rain on my parade. shred my evening gown. read my sentence out loud. cause i love this curse on our house. tell me which side are you on dear. give me some tips to forget you. have i become one of your problems. could it be easy this once. everything that’s mine is a landmine. did my love aid and abet you.

like….. yeah……

Before now, I don’t know if I have ever loved anyone or if I have ever been loved, but men have been very good to me, have seen my absurd out-of-my-place-ness, my bent grin and un-called for loud laugh and have wanted to love me for it, have been so warm in their wanting that sometimes I wanted to love them, too. And I think that must be worth something, that it should be a celebrated thing, that though I have not stood on a mountain under the usual false archway of tradition and chosen one person forever, what I have done is risked everything for that hour that hour in the black night where one flashing light looks like love, I have pulled over my body’s car and let myself believe that the dance was only for me, that this gift of a breathing one-who-wants was always a gift was the only sign worth stopping for, that the neon glow was a real star, gleaming in its dying, like us all, like us all.

My (second) tribute to Naya Rivera for her birthday today (Jan. 12th): part 1/7