queer poet and visual artist. @leromanovs on insta
Make Bridgerton Gay, Cowards!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that the incomparable Shonda Rhimes is a force to be reckoned with. A champion of diverse perspectives, whipsmart social commentary, engaging charcters, and immensely diverting storylines, this showrunner belongs to a tier of her own.
They all agreed that she hadn’t been dead very long. Even partially covered with snow, pale face open to the aching sky and the elements, her cheeks were flushed and radiant, and the soft skin under her jaw was warm to the touch. If not for her eyes, which were cast open in brown indolence, indifferent to the brightness of the rising sun, the reporting officers would have had a harder time assuring themselves that she was actually departed.
I’ve spent the past three years looking out of windows. My family went into lockdown earlier than most because my single mom is severely immuno-compromised, and she works in medicine—she knew what we were up against before the government even knew what we were dealing with.
After the divorce was finalized, my father embarked upon a glimmering, new phase of his life, one that barely accommodated me. Really, it was more of a crisis, the symptoms of which included: new appartments (always with the same hulking, black leather couches crowding the living room and perhaps, if I were lucky, an expired lunchable in the fridge), new girlfriends (young and overly-solicitous to me), new tattoos (traversing his abdomen and thighs with slightly alarming pictures I could not look at for very long), and new cars (flashy and roaring and unbearable to ride in). One weekend, he might pick me up in a new Beamer, the next, I would be bundled into the front seat of a baby blue Maserati.
Konstance DuBois had no business in this new millennium. At twenty-three, he was a solitary creature– unemployed and with no apparent prospects. It was true that he had secured an undergraduate degree from Florida State University, and in the Legal Studies Department at that, but he had no intention of becoming a lawyer, since that would require engaging with society in a way he felt himself inherently unable to do.
The eyes were exquisite—everyone said so. Not off somehow, and vaguely uncanny like the last iteration. These ones looked decidedly human: pale blue irises rimmed carefully in cobalt, complete with pupils programmed to dilate in response to particularly interesting or pleasurable external stimuli. At least that is what the brochure advertised.
Anya had made all of the arrangements for the shoot. A train would convey me from Albany to Bakersfield, and from there, I could grab a greyhound to Lancaster. Reneault would meet me at the station, and together we would drive to Mojave, where the makeup artist would be waiting to make me look presentable. The tickets were booked, and Reneault would compensate us for any transportation costs.
The stranger appears abruptly through the pines at the edge of the forest, flickering madly. Like an explosion, she thinks. It hurts Saskia’s eyes to look at him. She covers her face with one of her mittens, and ducks her head. Her brother, a blonde boy of about seven or eight, does not seem to notice. He is constructing an ice palace with his gloved hands, fingers working numbly to consolidate the loose snow into battlements.
Seven of Machine Gun Kelly’s Most Complicated, Philosophical Quotes Explained
1. “I am weed.” This is no doubt a reference to famed Spanish surrealist painter Salvador Dali’s famous ejaculation that, “I don’t do drugs. I am a drug.” A transgressive artist himself, MGK’s casual acknowledgement that altered states of consciousness do not necessarily require an external substance to catalyze them is still a somewhat radical spiritual and biochemical assertion.