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Me at 17 (sad/confused newly-discovered asexual girl, no dress sense), "I wish I had a gay best friend"
Me at 24 (nb, obnoxiously queer-looking, blasting lemon demon out of my sunshine yellow car as I stop to pick up my friend, catching myself in the mirror), "oh my god. I was the gay best friend all along"
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Wait, that's not right,
IT SHOULD SAY THE DAȲ̴̧̱̭̯̹̗̥̬̬̭̠̉͆́̋͌̐̈̈ ̷̹͕̘͖̽͂̃͒̂́̊͗͂̔͝T̸͛̊HA̸͎͉̺͇͛̅̉̈́̈̎͝͝ͅͅT ̸̡͎̣̙͔͉͕̙͉̩̦͈̘͈̊͑͆͊̏͒̀̉̽̕͝͝Ķ̶̧̨̡̘͚̘͖̭͓͇̬̲̹̩̂́̆͂̎̌̅͒Ȓ̶̡̲͚͈͓̪̘̗̬̪̪͚̹͈Â̸̔BS ̴̢̨̰͓͍̝̯̥̤͈̖̪̹̏̏͂͛̈́̃̾͊̉̓̅̋̏F̴̻̳͚͖̞̤͍̥̫̤̀̃̀́͒̽͆̕R̸̃̀̎̈̌̏̕IẸ̸̡̦̹̤̼͉͕͙̗̠̤̼̖̬̈́͋̋̆S̴̨͍͉͙̻͉̼̩̯͕̽ͅ
I feel like a significant part of a lot of queer experiences is falling madly in love with a fictional character who you'll clearly never get to be with. Like for me as an asexual I think part of it is just that there's something safe in getting to fall head over heels for a character I'll never have any obligations to...
...But god, if I don't feel masochistic in how much I love the feeling of my heart getting ripped to shreds every single time this happens
I want as much confidence as the cis men in my life who have felt the need to tell me their exact penis/condom size. As if telling me all about MY special interests wasn't:
a) enough for their daily bravado quota and
b) clearly making me completely lose interest in them already
"Let me know if you see any good cows!"
*Scoffs* "Obviously I'm going to tell you if I see any good cows"
I have never been so in love with Jon and Martin as I am right now, please don't take them away from me
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There is a snail in my wing mirror. A tiny, crawling thing that slithers in the shadowed corner. It thrums with life and sliminess. I could sit there for hours, watching the swirls of calcium carbonate on its shell's surface. I have done. It is not the patterns that enthral me, I’m not one of those fools chasing spirals; no, it’s what sings behind them. Sings that I am beautiful. Sings that I am a home. That I can be fully consumed by what loves me.
I do not know why the snail chose me, but it did. And I think that it always had. The song is loud and beautiful and I am so very afraid. There is a snail in my wing mirror. Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul.
MAG 199:
"can i have a cigarette?"
I SAW YOU I SAW WHAT YOU DID THERE
1am, in bed, wide awake
My brain: but what did Martin say was his middle name to Jon? I need to hear that conversation
