Without even intending it, I start to walk away from my religion. It is not a pleasant journey. I feel alone. I can’t tell anyone because everyone I know believes in God. I am an outcast. I am an X-Man.
My Myspace page becomes a giant collage depicting my undeniable love for Dana and Tegan and Sara. I’m not hiding anything. In fact, I think I’m making it pretty impossible for anyone who knows me to say, “that girl MUST be straight.”
The plastic label seals around my head, every breath of the word drawing it in tighter and tighter until it molds to my skin, where it can strangle me without anything seeming amiss.
I wanted to marry her and then die a week later so she’d write great songs about how I fucked like an experimental Viagra-fueled monkey
If Santa isn’t real, there really is no point in trying to believe in God anymore.
When things look the bleakest, that’s when Buffy is at her finest. She is calm and confident, trusting in her skills and abilities. She dances in the eye of the storm, and so could I.
I’m a 31-year-old man on my third glass of whiskey, and a game where you play as a high school girl is bringing me to tears.
Tell your story.