It was the start of my sophomore year of high school, I was scared and excited. Worried and carefree. I was far from popular but I had friends, lots of them. We were the outcasts, the kids in Japanese culture club. We played Magic the Gathering in study hall, Pokémon on our DS’s walking through the hallway. I was a tough cookie. I joined protests, silent and loud. I protested animal abuse, the firing of the lunch ladies, sexual assault. I wore the teal ribbon in April for all of my friends who had suffered through sexual abuse and assault. I taped over my mouth on the Day of Silence for those who fought depression silently and didn’t win the battle. I was strong in what I believed in and I was even stronger in knowing who I was.
I remember the worst day of my life like the back of my hand. Like answering “what did you eat for breakfast today?” The day I lost my best friend, my support, my constant, and one of the few things that kept me alive.
I want to clear something up from my last piece about labels. I worry that my ideas were taken incorrectly, I do not want anyone to think I don’t support the LGBTQ+/Queer community. I do support them, full heartedly and with all that I am. I support you, I support them and I support us. Forever and always.
So, I consider myself bisexual, and a part of the LGBTQ+ community or the queer community, whichever you prefer. I am in a very committed relationship with a strong, masculine, straight male who loves me for who I am. But here’s the thing, others in the LGBTQ+ community want to label me as so much more. The majority of my conversations I have with my queer friends go like this,
Guinea pigs are not the kind of pet to get your kid to teach them responsibility. They require way more than you think.
Everyone has that one food that they crave in a ganja fog. The desire to run to McDonald's at 2 AM for a Double Quarter Pounder with cheese—plain—to silence your aching stomach and screaming brain is too much. It’s cold, really fucking cold. You pile on socks under the warm fuzzy moccasins mom got you for Hanukkah and the sweatshirt you basically never take off because it’s too cozy and covers your knuckles perfectly. Last to go on are the warm flannel pajama pants: you know, the ones with the pastel penguins skiing down your legs? Yeah, those. Tiptoeing through the house to the door where the keys hang is the easy part. You grab your ancient car keys, and turn the door knob. It squeaks just a bit and the fear of waking up your mom with barking dogs send a shiver throughout your slightly sweating body. You shimmy out the door, closing it ever so gently, then breathe a huge sigh of relief.