THE BAD’S GOT TO FIX ITSELF, CORRECT OVERTIME

It finally happened.

By “it” I mean two things: a) I met a girl who’s adorable AND really into me, and b) my mom finally said what she really thinks of me, 8 months after my coming out. This weekend delivered a grand fucking mashup of emotions in a variety so disjointed it puts Cubist art to shame.

Let’s start with Saturday night: the date I wasn’t all that excited about. It really had very little to do with the girl – she made my heart flutter the first time she responded to my message on Tinder – it was just the fucktastic hole of depression I’d sunk into that had blinded me from anything else. (I’m terrified of the moment she finds out this is part of who I am…don’t even get me started.)

I decided to drive that night because the neighborhood of choice was not easily accessible by my beloved 22 bus, and taking an Uber would have been a tad bit of an unjustified expense. (SPOILER ALERT) In the end, I was glad I drove.

My date (let’s call her Sofia) was absolutely head-to-toe, radiantly, genuinely adorable. She’s 5’2” (Sara Quin’s height, don’t judge me for noticing) and moved to the U.S. two years ago from Mexico. For those two years, her English is admirable – far better than my Spanish would likely be in reverse circumstances – and she possesses a sense of honesty that’s refreshing. One day last week, she freaked out and texted me that she had to tell me something: she dates both men and women. I laughed and told her that I also had a confession: I’ve never had a girlfriend before, and this whole dating women thing is still less than a year old for me. If she’s OK with my lack of experience, I’m OK with her diversity of experience. She was relieved, and we bonded before even meeting. She’s just, well, sweet.

So we had our first date. It started with dinner at 7 pm – we couldn’t figure out what to order because we were too busy looking at each other and smiling shyly over our menus – and then we walked down a block to get donuts for dessert. It was colder than I prefer outside. But the damn cold was my friend, because all of a sudden the beautiful girl next to me was holding my hand. I was so surprised a silent squeal made its way to the base of my throat and hovered. There’s something gloriously free about walking down the street holding hands with a pretty girl, smiling like an idiot, not caring what the people think. (I did feel like we got some stares. But that was probably also because we were both smitten and tripping over our own feet.)

After the donut shop, we camped out in a bar with ambiance (a very cute ambiance during the evening, but a very bitch-slappingly drunk ambiance beginning around 11 pm, when the straight girls start making out with each other and the guys start Snapchatting themselves dancing with bottles of beer) for approximately 4 hours – yes, you heard me right. I did not get home until 2:30 Sunday morning. This was a SEVEN-HOUR FIRST DATE. You know what that means.

She was so easy to talk to. This is how the seven hours passed; they slipped through our fingers like water. We were racing to finish our mojitos – we’d decided earlier in the week that our first date should involve a race of some kind, and the winner gets a kiss – when she put her face close to mine, just enough that I could feel her breath on my skin, and said, “I really like you.” It was enough to make my bite my lip imagining her lips on mine.

I quickly finished the mojito and slapped the glass down on the table. “Done.”

She gasped. “You must have cheated.”

“I didn’t. I won.” I glanced at her flirtatiously. Then the room spun. I told her so.

“We’re waiting until you’re completely, 100% sober before I let you drive home,” she said.

“Fine,” I replied, and we sat there until I was well past sober.

“Do you want a ride to the train station?” I asked her, finally, when the night was winding down.

She looked down the street. “I mean, it’s just right there – “ She caught my eye, and amended her decision – “Okay.”

We got into my car. We sat there for a moment. I wanted to be a baller, say something romantic, kiss her. My heart dropped to my toes and I heard a sound like the ocean in my ears. I couldn’t.

I went to put on my seat belt.

“Wait!” she exclaimed.

“What?”

“I have to do this, or I’ll regret it.” She leaned over and suddenly her mouth was on mine, and the way she moved her lips made my brain fly out of my head and into the night sky, and simultaneously melt into soup. If they gave doctorate degrees in kissing, this girl would have one. It felt like all of the kisses in my life were lined up and revealed to be ugly little stick-figures of kisses compared to this one. It’s said among lesbians that “kissing a girl is 100% different from kissing a guy.” They’re right. It was fucking magical.

It was magical for about 2 seconds, until a truck came roaring around the corner and we were blinded by headlights. We stopped kissing, laughed our asses off, and resumed kissing. 10 minutes later we decided we should probably get to the train station, because it was almost 2 am.

I was double-parked on a busy street in front of the train station, but still she was kissing me, even though cars were honking at me to move and people were staring for real now. It was amazing. I haven’t felt so alive in months.

We’re doing a second date soon – possibly tomorrow. I feel like I can be myself around her. And I feel like it’s going somewhere.

Sunday morning (OK, it was noon, you got me) I woke up feeling different. Something had changed. What was it? Oh yeah, I remembered, and a giddiness came giggling out of me.

I went shopping – I need clothes for the next date – and amidst a fury of adorable texts from Sofia, I noticed an email from my mom. It said something about dates for a sibling hangout in Chicago, so I opened it immediately.

AND THEN THE BOMB DROPPED.

About a week ago, I asked her when my brother Liam gets out of school for the summer. I’m scheduling the rest of my days off till June, I told her, and I’d like to finally have the chance to spend a few days with him, just the two of us. I had lots of ideas: we could go shopping downtown, visit all the technology stores he’s been wanting to see, go to the beach, eat junk food, watch HGTV on my giant-ass TV, just hang out like we used to.

I didn’t explain all those ideas, but perhaps I should have, because based on my mom’s email I feel like what she thinks to be my list is as follows: get 15-year-old brother drunk, bring Liam to a gay club, send him home with a guy, have a huge homo party in my home and fuck a girl in front of him.

Her response to “May I have my brother over for a few days? I’ll pay for his food, pick him up and drop him off” is as follows (edited down to save space):

 

“I’ve been thinking about your offer to show Liam around Chicago. I’m sure he would love it. What days were you thinking about?

As parents we were responsible for everything we allowed you to do when you were still under our care.  We are currently responsible for Liam. One day we will stand before God and be held accountable for how we raised our children. It says in Luke 17:2: It would be better for them to be thrown into the sea with a millstone tied around their neck than to cause one of these little ones to stumble. We are NOT perfect parents. We are just trying to do our best. With that we have a few requests/comments.

First of all, we would request that you do not drink alcohol while he is with you.

Second, put away any gay magazines, books, etc. and please do not discuss this issue with him.

Third, we do not have a lot of money, so we are not able to send him with much.

Fourth, we would like it to be just you and Liam and not anyone else that he does not know. If your aunt and uncle, or Mark (editor’s note: the self-same boyfriend with whom I was living in sin just over one year ago, and she wouldn’t let him visit us when we lived together) come along, that’s fine. He knows them. 

Fifth, I would like to know what your plans are each day. Keep in touch. Maybe take some selfies and send them.

I hope you will not be offended by these requests/comments. We love you both so very much and want this to be a wonderful time together. It’s very sweet of you to spend some vacation days with your little brother.”

 

I might as well have been slapped in the face by my own mother in the middle of the store. Note to self: don’t EVER read emails from your mom in public anymore. You never know what delightful horseshit they may contain.

It’s possible I may be overreacting, but WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

No alcohol? FUCKING OBVIOUSLY, HE’S 15.

I have to put away my gay items?! What exactly does this include? I don’t have a whole lot. I suppose my Tegan and Sara merch is out of the question! EVEN THOUGH WE LISTEN TO THEIR MUSIC IN THE CAR TOGETHER AND HAVE BEEN ALL FUCKING YEAR.

I have to “not discuss” my being gay with Liam? News flash: I’m already out to him. Once you’re out, you’re out. I’m not going to pretend to be straight to protect their comfort level.

And I have to send her my plans for each day, and send selfies to prove it because otherwise, you never know what sort of buttfucking might be going on around here.

And who is this “we” she refers to? Because I’m 99% sure my dad had absolutely nothing to do with this email, in fact if I had a relationship with him, I’d consider forwarding it to him and asking if he agreed.

And on top of it all, I’m not allowed to be offended by any of this.

FOR CHRIST’S SAKE.

The whole thing was pretty much a list of ways in which I’m a failure of a daughter and a person, ways in which she doesn’t want Liam to grow up to be like me (there was more, but I don’t feel like getting into it here, not yet). We return to a basic question: does she think “gay” is contagious? That by spending time with me outside the realm of her absolute mind-control he will suddenly become attracted to men? Or, worse, he might grow up to be open-minded… When “liberal” is the worst thing your kid can grow up to be, you know you’ve got issues. It was then that her absolute homophobia struck me. She’s literally afraid of my gayness. The idea of me not enjoying being rammed with a dick makes her so uncomfortable that she’s willing to put our relationship on the line for the sake of it.

The idea too that she can do “damage control” on Liam’s future, “save” him from turning out like me by controlling his environment through censorship and essentially controlling his mind is getting more and more tiresome – and slightly creepy. She wants to control what we talk about, label certain issues “taboo” because I have different opinions from her on the matter. She performs random inspections of his phone (he outsmarts her and hides all the apps) because she’s absolutely paranoid that he’s watching porn or being solicited by male sexual predators, or, you know, viewing the word “shit.”

Side note: I’m not advocating a childhood sans rules or technological restrictions whatsoever, but you’d have to meet my mom to see what I mean. When I was a teenager I wasn’t allowed to talk to a new friend because he was Catholic and not Evangelical Free and therefore his views were different from theirs. I was only allowed to listen to Christian music, only allowed to hang out with Christians, only allowed to read books approved by her.

That was a long rabbit trail…

Anyway, I’d like to tell her that I’m incredibly insulted, that until she’s ready to acccept me for who I am, get educated and acknowledge that gay  irresponsible perv, then I don’t need to be part of her life. I’m done bending over backwards to visit all the time. I’m done taking her shit.

I don’t want to lose Liam, though. I haven’t said a word to her since Sunday – just deleted every one of her texts. This morning she accused me of having stopped loving her, to which I also have not responded. She should fucking know better.

I’ve been attempting to balance these feelings from hell with the euphoria of meeting Sofia for the past few days, and it’s been really, really weird.

Final note: Sunday night, I texted Sofia about the email, just to let her know why I wasn’t responding right away, apologized if I was telling her way too much after only one date. She was incredibly sweet and supportive about it – “Are you OK? You can call me and talk if you need to, I’m here for you.”

I’m trying not to get in over my head, but I think I might have found myself a keeper.

 

THERE’S MORE TO LIFE THAN LOVE AND BEING TOGETHER

Sunday morning after our first date, I woke up giddy from excitement, my head still spinning from the memory of Liana’s lips on mine. I found myself unable to erase a giant stupid grin from my face. I found myself singing Bollywood songs again, because she had put color back into my life. (This all proved to be awkward when I had lunch with my family that day. They didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell.)

I want to tell you guys about what happened with Liana. About how things ended with her.

But to do that, I need to talk about the second date. And to talk about the second date, I need to talk about Monday morning and coming out to my coworkers. And to do that, I need to talk about the LGBT happy hour. And to do that, I need to talk about the holiday party. So here’s how it’s going to work: this is going to read like Inception, where we backtrack through multiple levels of story, only instead of dreams, they’re flashbacks. (I’m pretty sure that’s lame. But whatever.) I’ve neglected to report on SO MUCH that has happened. Apologies in advance. Here is a floorplan of the levels:

1 – How things ended with Liana
2 – Crash and burn (the second date)
3 – Monday morning coming out
4 – LGBT Happy Hour
5 – Holiday Party
6 – Work crush

 

LEVEL 3: SHUTTING THE CLOSET DOOR BEHIND MYSELF ON A MONDAY MORNING, PART I

 

Monday morning at work, a coworker asked me, “How was your weekend? Did you do anything fun?”

Huh. Did I. (Snicker.)

See, my coworkers are pretty amazing people. And, I’m learning, my workplace is pretty damn LGBT-friendly. I’ve neglected to write about my coming out process at work, so here goes a quick summary of where I was in relation to the closet as of Monday morning.

Two of my coworkers – Robin and Melanie – have been slowly building friendship with me since I started the job. In the half-year I’ve been here, we’ve gone to lunch together, scheduled once-a-month happy hours, kept up a group chat on our phones. We’re not so close that we drunk-text each other, but we’re close enough to share things about our lives. In the last month, the friendship has progressed to a place where we are gossiping like schoolgirls about our romantic histories and current exploits. But it wasn’t until Monday that I stepped firmly out of the closet for all to see.

 

LEVEL 5: THE RED CARPET HOLIDAY PARTY, PART I

 

Rewind: December, holiday party. I had no idea what to wear. I wanted to look good. I wanted to look amazing in a distinctly gay way, but not so gay that the gayness took over. I tried on every outfit in my closet to see if maybe, just maybe I could feel comfortable in a dress. (Nope. I looked and felt like Shane did on that episode of The L Word where Carmen’s mother makes her wear a flouncy white dress. Comical, dysphoric, weird as fuck.) What I really wanted was a casual-but-classy red carpet look that Tegan and Sara would be proud of. Not too much to ask for, right?

I eventually gave up and wore a flannel shirt to work that morning. Whatever.

Around lunchtime, I had an idea: run over to H&M and make a last-ditch effort to find an outfit. If I find one, awesome, if I don’t, at least I can say that I tried. What happened is that the gods of shopping smiled down on me and hand-selected a gray blazer, a dressy button-up black shirt that appeared to be shoplifted from Sara Quin’s closet, and some skinny black dress pants. And a belt. I was essentially wearing a suit. (I really wanted Neil Patrick Harris to pop out of nowhere and yell at me, “Look at you, you beautiful bastard. You suited up!”)

It was a risky outfit. It was quite masculine, though my hair and makeup balanced it out for a more androgynous feel. It screamed gay. But it also looked good, good in a way that made me feel like I was glowing inside, good in a way that milks the Gays have fabulous style, don’t they? stereotype, good in a “I finally feel true to myself” way.

Unfortunately, word had gotten out that Jenny Went Shopping During Lunch for an Outfit for Tonight, so when I got back to the office, the girls swarmed to my desk and demanded to see what was in the bag. I don’t think I have ever blushed so hard in my life. “It’s not what you think,” I warned them. I don’t know what they were expecting. Some kind of dress? They weren’t sure how to oooh and aaah over something that wasn’t “pretty.”

I pulled out the blazer, and the shirt, and the belt, and watched them struggle to comprehend. Part of me wanted to crawl under my desk. I was 0% out at this point. Clearly, I’d been wearing a bunch of gay clothes, but nobody assumes anything these days. I got dressed a little later before we headed out. My palms were sweating when I walked out of the bathroom. I considered running back in and putting my old clothes back on.

But I didn’t. I walked out and acted like nothing had happened, even though people were staring. (I didn’t look THAT weird. Did I?) There was an awkward speechlessness for a good 15 minutes, but finally, one person said, “Is that the outfit you got? It looks good!” and conversation resumed.

This reminds me. There is another back story.

 

LEVEL 6: THE GODDESS IN MY OFFICE

 

At this point in time, I was pretty damn starry-eyed for this new girl in the office. She’s not in my department. I don’t have any interaction with her. I’m not sure how to describe her, except that she’s gorgeous, Latina, and dresses like a power dyke (read: dresses like a straight girl. She’s probably straight. Fuck me up.). Soft curly hair that probably smells like coconut, radiant dewy eyes that make the universe skip a beat when she looks at you. I swear to god, I only noticed her because one day she smiled directly at me from across the conference floor, and my sad gay brain went, “OHMYGOD SHE LIKES YOU.”

After that, I found excuses to walk past her desk (“I need to refill my water glass” was a good one) and smiled prettily at her every time. I yelled at myself internally (“Hold it together, Jenny! That’s not being a baller!”) but to no avail. One day, I found myself alone in the bathroom with her, and she said she liked my leather jacket, and smiled at me meaningfully. I almost ran into the door on my way out.

I was hoping she’d be at the holiday party, and that we’d strike up a conversation, and I’d find out if she was single, if she liked girls, if she wanted to maybe hang out sometime and you know, like, marry me. LOL.

Well, she wasn’t at the holiday party, I found out a couple weeks later that she has a 5-year-old daughter (not that that means anything, but it would probably make things complicated even if she is single and likes women), and at some point I’m pretty sure she figured out that a) I’m gay, and b) I have a crush on her. She stopped looking up when I walked by. To this day I have a hard time looking at her. She’s too fucking beautiful and I’m afraid I’ll say something stupid if I try to talk to her.

Back to the party.

 

LEVEL 5: THE RED CARPET HOLIDAY PARTY, PART II

 

The party ended up being amazing, despite my crush not being there. There was an open bar. This means free gin. This means wait until your boss goes home and then drink gin and cranberry all night. (This means your boss will be in the office tomorrow at 8 am on the dot, whether you’re hung over or not. Fuck that.)

One by one, everyone from our team left, until it was just Robin and me sitting at a table with some random guy from Accounting. He was trying to convince us to go to a karaoke bar. I was trying to sober up. Robin was moaning about the lack of cute men in her life, and begging the guy from Accounting to introduce her to some brokers.

This went on for a good half hour, after which Robin said, “Hey, let’s go to the after party! You going?” The guy from Accounting said he was going home, and during the next 15 minutes, we struck up a conversation with another guy, Alex.

I figured I might as well hit the after party. “Yeah, I’m in,” I told her.

Robin was ecstatic about sharing an Uber with Alex. Early 30s, facilities management, from the UK, reasonably attractive, has an accent (loud as fuck on the phone, but only I seem to notice that). Girls love him. “Melanie is going to be sooooo jealous!!” Robin giggled in my ear.

Five minutes later, I found myself jammed into the middle seat between Robin and Alex. He was uncomfortable. I was uncomfortable. Robin was hissing things in my ear about how lucky I was to be sitting next to him. “Want to switch?” I hissed back.

The Uber arrived. We got out of the car and Robin said to me, “Jenny, we need to find you a boyfriend.”

I laughed nervously. The moment of truth had arrived. It was time. I was drunk. It wasn’t going to get any easier than this.

“No thanks,” I said.

Robin paused at the door to the bar. “Well, why not?!” she said.

I took a deep breath. “Because…I don’t like boys.”

I ran inside the bar, shaking. Robin came in after me. “Well…that’s OK!” she said. “Let’s find you a girlfriend then!”

Relief erupted inside me. It was over. Robin was the biggest office gossip, so by Monday morning, everyone would know. I wouldn’t have to come out to anyone else. (As luck would have it, Robin did NOT end up telling everyone, but it was OK.)

 

LEVEL 4: THE LGBT HAPPY HOUR

 

Robin and I squeezed our way past about 200 people to find out group at the opposite corner of the bar. Some guy I’d never seen before smiled at me drunkenly, and I geared myself up for indignance, but then he opened his mouth and said, “I love your outfit. You look fabulous. I’m going to invite you to the company-sponsored LGBT happy hour next week.”

What?! I’d just come out to my first coworker not 2 minutes before this. How did he pick me out of a crowd? I couldn’t believe it!

He invited both Robin and me and put our names on the email invite. The next day, I discovered that my company is trying to launch an LGBT networking group. It’s still in the beginning stages. I don’t know if it will ever take off. But I was absolutely psyched to know that things like this exist.

In the end, Melanie and Robin (and 2 guys on our team who are gay) came to the happy hour with me. I still had not come out to Melanie. I’m pretty sure at this point questions were flying about my sexuality, but nobody asked, and I couldn’t find an appropriate moment to volunteer the information, so I awkwardly kept my mouth shut. It was still a good event.

The next day, one of the supervisors on our team, Laurie, emailed me to ask how the happy hour went. “I really wanted to go,” she said. “I have a cousin who’s transgender and the topic is really close to my heart.”

I emailed her back, saying it was a wonderful event, how lucky her cousin was to have an ally like her in the family, and that I wasn’t sure if she knew this, but I’m gay. (Side note: Laurie and Robin talk about EVERYTHING, so I was 99% sure she already knew, and that would have been totally fine with me, but according to Laurie, Robin hadn’t told her.)

Laurie’s response was amazing: “I didn’t know, but I’m glad you feel like you can talk to me about it. If there’s ever anything I can do to help you, just let me know.” I almost cried.

We chatted a little about coming out to my parents, about how if one of her kids ever came out to her she’d be their biggest champion, how I can always tell her anything. I’ll put it this way: I never expected to find a mentor/ally in a supervisor, but the feeling that she’s got my back has given me courage to be a lot more open and honest at work, and I wish every queer person could experience this kind of support.

 

LEVEL 3: SHUTTING THE CLOSET DOOR BEHIND MYSELF ON A MONDAY MORNING, PART II

 

Back to Monday morning (after my first date with Liana). Robin poked her head over my desk. “Hey,” she said. “Do anything fun this weekend?”

I blushed a little. “Well,” I said. “I went on 2 dates, with different people.”

Her jaw dropped. “Really!” she exclaimed. “How did they go?”

“Well, the first one was OK,” I said. “But the second one…OMG. She’s amazing.”

Robin’s face lit up. “Wow!! Do you have pictures? Are you guys texting? Will there be a second date?”

Melanie walked over. “What are you guys talking about?” she demanded.

“Jenny went on 2 dates this weekend!” said Robin excitedly.

“What?! Tell me everything!” Melanie said. “Does this person live close to you?”

I took a deep breath. “Well…..she lives in the suburbs, actually.” There was no going back. I was firmly out of the closet. The door slammed shut behind me.

A thousand thoughts flickered over Melanie’s face as she absorbed the infomration in the space of a few seconds:

Why didn’t she tell me? I knew it!!
OMG. That explains SO much!
But…she had a boyfriend…
So Jenny likes girls. No big deal, roll with it.
I want to ask more. But I won’t.

“That’s so cool!” Melanie said. “Where did you take her?” She didn’t even miss a beat. Kids, this is the coming out of the future: the non-coming out. The “Oh yeah, I’m dating someone. She’s awesome.” Where people simply discuss their dating lives and nobody bats an eye at the gender identity of the dates.

Then she said, “Want to go get coffee? I need to hear all the details!” So we did. I think at some point we’ll end up talking about my evolution of preferences, about my coming out process, etc. But for right now, it’s nice to have coworkers who knew me first as a person, and then as a lesbian. Not “that one gay coworker” but “that coworker who’s our friend, and oh yeah, she happens to like girls.” It’s refreshing and awesome. All of a sudden my friendship with my coworkers is deeper, and more real, more honest. (Melanie is even coming up with plans to set me up with lesbian acquaintances, if I’m interested.) And it’s all thanks to Liana that I had this opportunity.

Stay tuned for the story of our terrible second date, and the positivity that can be drawn from the experience.

SO THIS HAPPENED TODAY

I’ve been creating so many #lesbianmemes lately. I might as well use them in my posts, right? Oh. And most of them involve Tegan or Sara, or both. 😁

But really, yeah. This happened. The guy who used to work with both Mark and me at our old company had indeed mentioned us to my manager, who tells everyone everything, so no wonder I was flying under the gaydar. Today a few of us were sitting around talking about our exes, and this came up. So  pretty much everyone at work thinks I’m straight.

It’s kind of ironic. I envisioned being visibly gay at work while being in the closet at home, not the other way around. So what’s stopping me from telling them? I don’t know exactly. I feel like the label has been slapped so hard on me that no matter how many pairs of oxfords I wear, no matter if I decide to buy that rainbow umbrella I really want from Target or replace my lanyard with a Pride lanyard, I’m not going to be recognized until I up and say, “So I have a date with a girl this weekend…”

And my mom seems confused. During my coming out conversation, she was like, “But you seemed sad when Mark broke up with you.”

“Of course I was sad, Mom. I really did love him. It wasn’t fake. But I’m dating girls now.”

She keeps saying stuff now to the effect of, “You were always gay. You’ve always thought guys were icky, and you were just pretending for us.” Which isn’t true. But it’s the only way she can wrap her mind around it, because “somewhere on the spectrum” or “uncertain” or “sexually fluid” is uncomfortably undefined for her. Hell, it’s uncomfortably undefined for me! So I think that’s the problem with coming out to my coworkers, or anyone else who knew me as straight in any capacity. It’s like having had a boyfriend, and having truly invested myself in the relationship (not faking it), invalidates my queerness.

But I’m OK for now. I’ve come out to my parents and that’s the most important step. It’s not like my coworkers are trying to set me up with guys.

It’s just that it feels so good to be out and proud.

Baby steps.

Love is love.

Where did all the trees go?

I came out to my brother Saturday night. I’d been trying to find time to bring him somewhere quiet were we could talk, and it just wasn’t happening. Finally at 11 pm I said fuck it, let’s go to McDonald’s for a late night snack. So we did. It was more awkward than I expected.

Me: So Liam, I have to tell you something…
Him: (scrolling through his phone like a typical technology-addicted 15-year-old) Yeah?
Me: Dude. Put your phone down, this is serious.
Him: (rolling his eyes) Fine.
Me: So, um, do you know what it means to be gay?
He just nodded, like he knew exactly what was coming.
Me: You know, when boys like boys and girls like girls?
Him: Uh-huh.
Me: Well, I’m not sure if I would call myself totally gay, but I like girls.
Him: Uh-huh.
Me: Did you know that already?
Him: Yeah.
(He kind of looked at me like, if you post one more photo of Sara Quin on ig I’m going to strangle you.)
We both laughed.
Me: OK then. Do you have any questions?
Him: Nope.

LMAO! It’s impossible to know what exactly is going on inside his head, but it was good to get everything out in the open. He still suggests potential boyfriends for me, but it seems like more of an effort to gross me out, like waving a frog in a girl’s face, than a genuine attempt to “fix” me.

We talked a little about people’s opinions on gay people. About what he might hear from his friends, or at the private Christian school he attends. I asked if he still thought I was cool, which of course he denied because I never was cool in the first place, but I could sense a new closeness between us. We hung out pretty much every second we were both home. It was pretty awesome.

As a side note: it doesn’t seem like my parents will try to keep us apart. As part of the suburban mindset they’ve always been freaked out by the city, so I’m hoping that’s all that was – my mom hasn’t even reviewed/censored Liam’s phone since my coming out, so that’s something. I’m pretty sure emotions were running high that first night. One overreaction is allowed. I feel relief.

I DIDN’T SEE IT COMING: SUCKER PUNCH

This is Part 2 of how I came out to my parents. Read Part 1 here.

Recap: I came out to my mom last night after she straight up asked me if I was gay. Very much awkwardness followed.

“How long have you felt this way?” was the first question out of her mouth. She exhaled like she’d been holding that breath for the entire 6 months I’ve been home.

“About a year,” I said. I could see her doing the math.

“Did something happen to you in Rogers Park?” she asked. “Something traumatic?”

“Oh, I see. You’re trying to figure out what turned me.”

“Well, yes. Because usually when people are gay, they know from the time they’re young. They don’t suddenly figure it out at 24.”

That stung. I was simultaneously being judged and having my offense invalidated. I figured this would happen, though – that she’d have a hard time with it because I’ve dated men and because I was truly in love with them. Her reminding me of this triggered my queer insecurity, and a large part of me wondered if the gay was, indeed, wearing off. If I was “gay enough” to go through the whole coming out ordeal. If it was worth it.

I told her I didn’t know how I felt about men. That one day maybe I could love them again, but it didn’t seem likely at the moment. That right now, the straight ones piss me off, and if that makes me an angry lesbian stereotype, I’m sorry but it’s how I feel.

There were several long periods of silence. The whole thing was very reminiscent of the time a friend’s mom had outed me as Catholic to my parents and we sat there in the living room judging each other quietly for an hour.

“You were such a nice girl back then,” she lamented, even though at the time there was nothing worse than having a Catholic daughter. (Actually, I’m fairly certain I said something to her like, Mom, it could be worse. At least I’m not gay or something. Ha!)

Still, she wasn’t throwing me out of the car, or onto the streets.

“We kind of knew,” she said. Oooh. I was dying to know. Was it the dykey shoes? The short hair? The way I’d stopped talking about men and used gender neutral ways of talking about future dates? Oh, of course. It was probably that damn Tegan and Sara wallpaper on my phone. The truth was less glamorous.

“You never make that many friends that fast,” she said. “You’re an introvert like me. And now in one month you have all these new friends, and they’re gay.”

Oh yeah, and then there was that. Aside from the ignorant “Your new friend/roommate is gay therefore you must be gay too” mentality, I’m slightly weirded out that someone we know – or several people according to my mom – took the effort to creep on these people’s Facebook profiles to find out their orientations. I have a few ideas about who it was. I thought about writing a Facebook blast this morning about how juvenile it was to creep on profiles of friends of friends and then snitch to other people about their personal details, but decided to take the high road and say what the fuck ever.

In the end it worked out to my benefit: I’m spared the agony of coming up with a way to come out, the sweating palms, the chickening out, etc. The part that comes next is harder. Do I take the initiative to tell the rest of my family – my grandma, my aunt and uncle, my cousins? I feel like they deserve a face-to-face coming out. They deserve to hear it from me and not from her.

When I converted to Catholicism, my mom did the job of telling everyone else, but because I didn’t tell them, it became the elephant in the room that nobody talked about. I don’t want that to happen with this. But I also feel entirely unprepared to sit down with my sweet, elderly, devoutly Christian grandma and tell her I want to date women. How do you do that?

A few other things were addressed:

• We talked about coming out to friends, and my mom actually said, “I would think it would be creepy, having a friend come out to you. Like, what if they had a crush on you?” She fucking went there. I’m proud to say I checked her on that: I asked if she was creeped out every time she met a straight man, because they also might have a crush on her. “I’m not attracted to every girl I see,” I said. “We’re not sex maniacs.”
• She used the words “sad” and “disappointed.” “But we still love you… ” Ugh. Save it.
• I made sure to tell her that I didn’t choose this. No one in their right mind would wish this on themselves. I think it made her think. But then she’s sad and disappointed, so clearly it was my choice.
• “I hope it’s a phase,” she said. And when she said it, I realized that I didn’t want it to be a phase for me anymore. I realized that I fucking love being gay. I tried to explain that but I don’t think she understood. Anyway, it was a significant realization for me.
• She asked some interesting questions like have I ever had a girlfriend (when? I’ve been stuck in your home from 6 months!) and have I told people at work. She doesn’t seem to get how awkward it is to just go around being gay for the first time ever, or to talk about it with new acquaintances.
• At the end, she said, “Well thank you for being honest,” as if I had confessed to a crime.

On the way home, I felt like sobbing tears of relief. Now I can come out to anyone without fear of having the information getting back to my parents! I can date again – and I can stop deleting The L Word from my Netflix history!

When we got home, there was a sweet moment in which she hugged me and my brother came up from the other side and hugged us both, even though he didn’t know yet. It felt like all was right with the world.

And then.

And then I asked her, so can I still bring Liam to Chicago with me tomorrow to help me start setting up my apartment? (I’m not very good at being the handy tool-wielding drill-bearing dyke yet, so I was planning on having him help with installations.)

She took one hard look at me and turned away. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”

It was like a death sentence. What the hell did it mean?

Two texts later, I learned that there would be conditions on my relationship with my little brother, my best friend. Best case scenario: they don’t want him visiting the city outside their realm of control. Because if he walks into a house with 2 lesbians, our combined magical unicorn powers will turn him gay. (It’s contagious, you know.) Worst case scenario: they limit our communication, censor our correspondence, never allow me to hang out with him without one of them present.

I don’t know what will happen. They are still deciding. As it is, I’ve already told Liam to unfollow me on Instagram (one too many “OMG Sara Quin is so fucking hot” comments, oops) and delete our texts, just in case there’s anything that could be used against me. It feels vaguely reminiscent of a custody battle.

If I’m allowed to go on a walk with him alone tonight, we’ll go to the park and I’ll tell him, just so he hears it from me. I’m on the train on the way home. It won’t be long now.

STRAIGHT OUTTA THE CLOSET

“I need to ask you something,” said my mom last night as we were getting into the car.

My throat suddenly had a heartbeat.

“Sure, what?” I asked, playing it cool.

We were parked in my grandma’s driveway, about to drive home after collecting about 1/4 of the stuff I’ve been keeping there since my last apartment.

She turned the car off. This was going to be a long conversation. OK.

“I’ve heard from several sources that Ella is gay,” she said. “I need to know how you feel about that.”

“What, my roommate? I’m cool with it,” I said casually. “You should be too.”

Her voice came out strained. “No, I mean…you. Are you gay?”

I had imagined it a thousand times in my head: or possibly less, because I never like thinking about it. But I had been starting to plan it out. I’d invite my brother to spend a weekend with me in Chicago at my new apartment, take him out to dinner and then to the beach, and come out to him before my parents could “get to him” first and brainwash him into hating me. I’d tell him I was afraid of telling Mom and Dad and ask if I had his support. And if I was right about the way I think he feels, he’d be like, “Whatever, Jenny. Love is love.”

And then I’d have the whole family over for dinner. If I was brave, I’d do it in person and say, “The next person I date is not going to be a guy.” (Isn’t that genius? It took me months to come up with that phrase.) Or, if I chickened out, I’d send an email later.

But that’s not how it happened. That’s not even remotely close. What happened was the small explosion of a failed firework going off, followed by the unexpected slow burn of gunpowder as it returned to the ground.

It’s funny, I spent all this time agonizing over what I would say to her, and then it turns out I never had to. It’s happened this way with a few secrets I’ve had: they ask before I can tell.

I squirmed for a few minutes, played with the cap on my water bottle. Finally I looked her straight in the eye and said, “OK, it’s true. I like girls.”

(Please stay tuned for the next part of this story and her reaction.)

IT’S THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

It finally happened: a solid weekend in the city, partying with my homos. Also, I’m moving out in 3 weeks. (!!!)

Who needs central heat when this is your backyard?

I’m almost in tears of relief. I thought this day would never come. And now it has, and it’s time to plan for more important shit like coming out to my parents (should I do it in person? via email?) and not tripping over my elbows when talking to cute girls. And saving up airfare for when Tegan and Sara finally go back on tour in 2016, in case they decide not to hit Chicago.

All of this happened last weekend, but I’ve just now had some time to sit down and breathe. So here goes.

It’s amazing what spontaneous friendships crop up when you’re queer and looking for roommates. I feel like the whole “You’re gay? OMG same!” conversation has more power to unite strangers than any other detail you might have in common. I’ve made about 5 friends this way so far, and all in the last month.

Here’s how it all happened:

My original supposed-to-be roommate, we’ll call her Ella, moved in this weekend – to a “vintage” 3-bedroom unit in Wrigleyville, just across the tracks from that majorly gay neighborhood, Boystown. There’s one other girl living there right now, and when Ella told me she was jumping on that ship, I held back because because I hadn’t seen the place and wasn’t sold on the location. But they’ve been looking for a 3rd roommate and somehow hasn’t found one yet. I told Ella I would come over and help her move in and we could go out to dinner and hang out – because we genuinely connect as friends, and it’s what I would want someone to do for me if I was new to the city and didn’t know anyone. (As it turns out, we’ve both been running into a shitload of people we already know. Everybody lives in Chicago!)

Meanwhile, last week I met Rachel, another potential roommate. We bonded over coffee and coming out stories. There was an instant connection, a feeling of “I don’t know you, but no matter what happens with coming out to your parents/declaring your feelings for that girl you like/navgating the queer world, I’ve got your back.” It was beautiful. (I kind of want to stay on this roommate site just to keep making gay friends!) Rachel told me a few days later that she unfortunately wouldn’t be needing a roommate after all, but that we should still be friends. Then she invited me and Ella to hang out with her and some of her friends the same day Ella moved in!

Yes, it took me an hour to find overnight parking because the entire neighborhood is permit parking after cetain hours. Yes, I had to walk about 12 blocks back to the apartment, and yes, it felt like 90 degrees outside and the window units hadn’t been installed in the apartment yet. And getting past the Wrigley Field vortex is fucking insanity, but so far in a “Wow this is so cool and epic” way.

But it was OK. None of that mattered when I thought about the friendships that were forming. Wrigleyville/Boystown is one of those areas where you can walk down the street and strike up a conversation with someone at Whole Foods about perfect avocados and have that spiral into a deep connection. I feel it in my bones: it’s unlike any other neighborhood I have visited.

So our weekend included:

• Meeting Rachel’s friends, including 2 guys who were a couple and were some of the nicest, coolest people people I have ever met
• Pre-gaming at Rachel’s apartment with several glasses of wine so that by the time we were walking to where we were going we were quite shit-faced
• Sharing coming-out stories
• Six people in one Uber
• A walk-through of Wrigleyville Summer Fest, which the advertisements make seem like a combo of a farmer’s market/art walk but is nothing like that and should be renamed “Pride: Part II” (I was drunkenly delighted to see about 10,000 rainbow flags, same-sex couples being affectionate in public, HRC booths and at least 10 cute women with asymmetrical haircuts who totally checked me out and smiled at me, sending me into a tailspin of stupid grinning)
• Rachel and the girl she liked passing a baseball cap back and forth all night (how very lesbian of them)
• Ordering 2 large pizzas and discovering it was wayyyyyy more than we could eat and giving the rest to some homeless guy
• A dance party at a bar on the west side of town
• The realization that we were still drunk the next morning
• A very hung-over crawl to IHOP
• An appreciation for the glory of Halsted St. and peeking into the Center on Halsted with the same heart palpitations I used to experience when looking into a nicely decorated church, and an urge to cry/dance/hug everybody
• Coming to terms with the fact that living in Wrigleyville necessitates some level of green/hipster thinking if you want to fit in: you do your Whole Foods grocery shopping and you bring your own damn reusable cloth bags. End of story.
• A wonderful (sober) conversation with Liz about anything and everything

After all that, I decided that good roommates were more important than granite countertops, so I told Ella I’d apply for the 3^rd bedroom in her apartment. She was overjoyed. (The other roommate is rarely home but nice enough when I met her – I’m going to hope for the best). I was even happier when the landlord called me to say I could set my own move-out date, anywhere from 6 months to a year. So it’s enough to get my foot in the door without being long-term if it doesn’t work out so well.

The next chapter of my life is about to begin.

And before it does, I need to decide what to do with the 20 boxes of stuff from my last apartment sitting in my grandma’s basement.

CLEAN SLATE: A NON-COMING OUT

Today for the first time I experienced the joyful feeling of presenting myself as gay to a sympathetic straight person.

It was different from coming out to my friends who have known me my whole life as straight, because I didn’t have to “come out.”

It was different from meeting my coworkers because my orientation has not been discussed with them.

It happened while I was having lunch with a potential roommate. (The other roommate I have mentioned fell through, but I am hoping for continued friendship with her, and things seem promising in that department.)

“How soon do you want to move out?” Nicole asked.

“Well, I was hoping for beginning of August, but that’s unlikely… September would work, I guess. As soon as possible,” I said. “I feel like I can’t be myself at home.”

“What do you mean?”

I’d been allowing my thoughts free reign of my speech again.

“Oh, well, my parents are very conservative,” I explained.

Her face lit up. “Oh, that’s right, and you’re gay!”

Good job, I thought. She actually read my profile!

“Yes,” I affirmed, smiling like an idiot. It felt so good. I didn’t have to explain my past, I didn’t have to go into a history or explain the existence of an ex-boyfriend. To this person, I had always like girls. I was one of the homos. It felt like ticking off an item on the list of qualifications to removing the #notareallesbian tag.

“And your parents don’t support you?” Nicole said, almost in disbelief.

“Well…they don’t know yet.”

Her eyes widened. “Oh,” she said. “That must be so difficult.”

And suddenly I was telling her about my experience: not about how I realized my inner rainbow last year and made the giant leap from straight to not straight, but about what life was like at home, about my parents and the things people had said. For once it was nice not to be the gay convert. It was a clean slate like coming into the world from the first time as a new person. It was liberating.

HARDHEARTED? DON’T WORRY, I’M READY FOR A FIGHT

I’m unnerved. I complied a list of all the things I remember my parents saying about queer people or about being gay, and it isn’t pretty.

To give them the benefit of the doubt, I think a lot of ignorance has to do with the fact that they’ve never personally confronted the reality of what it means to be queer. They’ve never had to consider questions like, How would I feel if I was gay? Or, How would I feel if a girl broke my daughter’s heart? Or, What are the difficulties gay people face in their everyday lives? They’re so busy being scared and creeped out (true homophobes!) that they forget that queer people are people. I think that once they confront that reality, it might be possible for them to at least equate gay with human.

Here’s what we’re dealing with:

1. The initial “ick” factor:

“I hate it when your father shaves his beard off. It’s like kissing a girl. I mean, eww!” (Mom, with a visible shudder)

I’d like to point out that while I always preferred clean-shaven (and interestingly, effeminate) men when I was into men, I thought much the same reaction to the thought of kissing girls. It’s gross…until it’s not. LMAO.

2. “Jenny, you have to get here fast. We’re driving around the restaurant and there’s no parking. And this is a really sketchy neighborhood. There are, like, gay people walking around. I’d better watch your brother like a hawk.” (Mom, on the phone with me, in Lakeview)

And every time I ever mentioned that restaurant after this incident: “Yeah, what neighborhood were we in? Was that Boystown? There were so many gays!” or “It was really scary!”

I discussed the most recent time it was brought up again in this post from 10 days ago. But I think she’s mentioned it probably about 5 times since then, and the memory of meeting for dinner in the city never escapes mention of “the gays.” Never. For her it must have been like going to a zoo and seeing all the gay people in an exhibit. And of course there’s also the assumption that gay couples are going to be a) interested in my 14-year-old brother, b) perverted enough to come onto him in front of my parents, and c) will kidnap him if my mom looks away for one second. And also, Mom: they weren’t bothering you or talking to you or having sex in the street, so why exactly were these fashionable young men “scary”?

3. On the same night: after dinner my parents stopped in at my apartment for dessert, and my apartment was located in an area of a neighborhood that actually could be sketchy. I warned them of this.

“What do you mean, sketchy neighborhood? Like, transgender people walking around?” (Dad, quite loudly on the street)

“No, Dad, like drug sales.”
Was he high? Was he on stupid pills? I’ll never know. WTF.

4. And while we’re on the subject of attitudes toward trans people – when I was growing up, it was an understood rule that the worst possible thing you could find out about your significant other, maybe just shy of, “I’m a serial killer and I’m wanted in 46 states,” was that they were transsexual, and you had been fucking them all along not detecting it. Because that would make you gay. There were a few conversations that went something like this:

“So Mom, [my boyfreind] Kyle said he had to tell me something today…”

“Really? What was it?”

“He wants to wait a year to go to law school.”

(lets out a sigh of relief) “Oh, whew. I thought you were going to say that he used to be a girl!”

5. “Emma is clearly just doing it for attention. To rebel. It’s a cry for help.” (Mom, on my friend Emma coming out as bisexual, which opinion was reiterated every time Emma started dating a new girl). Read: It’s not real. Bisexual doesn’t exist.

6. My mom has a friend at work, Allison, whom she holds very dear except that they disagree on some volatile issues. “Allison wants the Catholic Church to change its teachings on homosexuality. It’s ridiculous. The Church will never change. But, you know, it’s probably because Allison’s sister is a lesbian. I think she should just leave the Church if she doesn’t agree.”

While I personally left the Catholic Church for this reason among others (among them being a fundamental lack of faith in the existence of God as Christianity defines the concept), I say, props to Allison for sticking around and advocating and making the Church a better place for gay people who do choose to include faith in their lives.

7. “We used to have these friends, Susan and Sam. They weren’t Christians. Sam died in a motorcycle accident and it was so sad because Susan was all alone and Sam didn’t go to heaven.” (I’d love to know who promoted my mother to the position of gatekeeper…did St. Peter give his 2 weeks’ notice or something? Or maybe he faxed her a report of the court proceedings after Sam’s death? I would think that would be against company policy…LMAO.)

Anyway, for years I thought that Sam was a man, until somewhat recently my mom told the story again and was like, “What? No, Sam was a girl. Susan and Sam were a gay couple.” Ohhhhhh now I get it. Sam was double-doomed because she didn’t go to church AND she was gay. That about seals it. (But really? My parents had gay friends? How progressive of them.)

8. Here’s the kicker. My mom has a friend from college, Breanne, and they used to write each other Christmas letters every year. At one point, Breanne fell out of touch and moved out west and Mom didn’t have her contact info. A few years later, Mom got a letter from Breanne that said she was sorry for not staying in touch and that she had gone through a lot of major life changes. Mom pretty much read the letter out loud at the dinner table.

“She went gay,” Mom said indignantly. “She up and decided she was gay. See? Here’s a picture of Breanne and her new…um, partner, I guess.” She was shuddering the whole time as if Breanne’s name had appeared in this morning’s newspaper under “sex offenders.” I wanted to say, “Jeez, Mom, and you wonder why Breanne took so long to come out to you?”

Mom still mentions her occasionally. Whenever she does, she tells me the woman’s entire life story and emphasizes Breanne’s sexual orientation with great disgust. Breanne doesn’t have a name anymore: she’s “my friend who went gay.”

Shall we unpack this? I see all the classic components of a Christian homophobic reaction here.

First off, because Breanne used to date men, Mom is unable to fathom that Breanne could legitimately have feelings for women. (Actually I’m pretty sure she’s not aware of the fact that same-sex coupes have feelings for each other at all, because “homosexuality” according to Republicans is stripped of any emotional component and is nothing more than rabid and unapologetic monkey sex.)

Her “gay branding” of anyone she knows who happens to be gay (it’s not “my coworker,” it’s “my gay coworker”) tells me that to her, being gay is so spectacularly weird, perverted, crazy, noteworthy, that it deserves mention each and every time. It’s like a defense mechanism. Her reaction to Breanne’s coming out reminds me of a small barky chihuahua running around sinking its teeth into everyone out of total fear and lack of control of the situation. Fear-based aggression, you know?

I have also heard my mom wonder out loud if Breanne was abused by her father, her boyfriends, anyone – because being gay is a psychological reaction to some traumatic experience. My guess based on the story I have heard is that Breanne always knew she was gay, but dated men to fit in with her friends. And when your friends are anything like my mother, no wonder! But my mom seems to think Breanne woke up one morning and decided to go out and date women, as if it was never part of her life before then.

She was also personally offended, as if Breanne’s coming out had anything to do with her, as if it was some big scheme to fuck over the universe. When I come out, I want to make it clear that my orientation has NOTHING TO DO WITH YOU. It’s who I am, take me or leave me. I’m ready for this fight. I’m so jaded I almost don’t even care anymore.

So let’s review. According to my mom, being gay:

• Is creepy
• Means you’re a pedophile
• Makes you a danger to society
• Is a mental illness/reaction to trauma and abuse
• Is a choice
• Has something to do with the person you’re coming out to
• Is about rebelling and royally fucking over your parents/God/the universe
• Is equivalent to a sex act: it does not entail an emotional/romantic relationship
• Is not something you can discover about yourself later in life (no concept of sexual fluidity)
• Defines a person

Or –

• Doesn’t exist. It’s just a ploy to get attention.

However, more recently, my mom in particular has been watching what comes out of her mouth, at least around me. I don’t know if this means she is consciously trying to be more sensitive, or if she’s picked up on something different about me, or if she’s simply avoiding a fight/emotional meltdown, but whatever the reason, I’ll take it. I’m hoping that when my family is forced to confront a Real Life Gay Person, the experience will assist them in understanding that people do not choose to be gay and that we are all human and deserving of love.

I WANT A HOUSE ON A BEACH AND YOU IN MY DREAMS

The apartment search is turning into a battle of attrition.

My roommate and I applied for 2 different apartments so far, fees and all, and got rejected both times. The agent said it was because there were multiple applications. It didn’t hit me until yesterday, after we received the rejection email for a space that should have been easy to secure with our decent rental history and credit scores: the realization of just HOW bad the market sucks right now, like a punch in the gut.

For some reason, at least in Chicago (and maybe everywhere, but I wouldn’t know) all the leases are up between March and June. There are very few spaces available in August, but it’s a very popular time to move into the city from elsewhere, so the competition gets ridiculous. For any apartment I find, and especially one that meets my aesthetic standards – which are admittedly high, since I have huge emotional issues with chipboard cabinets and pink tile – at least 15 other people are applying for it, and there’s always going to be someone with better history, etc. Landlords can afford to be picky with renters right now. They think they’re Shane at a crowded bar or something.

I was so horrified when it hit me yesterday at work that I went out and did an hour of stress-shopping. (Most of it consisted of drooling over the sneak peeks of next season’s black leather jackets, and thinking What Would Sara Wear, and then remembering the lack of funds in my bank account and putting them back on the rack before things went too far.)

I texted Mark about it.

“I can’t live with my family anymore, I just can’t! I’m one innocent mistake from coming out to them. Maybe I should. Maybe I should just get out and stay out.”

I mean, really. How bad could it be?

He’s been a decently good friend to me after the breakup, but he doesn’t understand the urgency of my situation.

“Don’t come out yet,” he told me. “It’ll only make your life hell.”

He’s right, of course.

But there he is, happily complacent about his mediocre life, happy to live with Mom and Dad into his 30s, happy to continue working part-time at the job I got for him, putting off dating because he’s “just not ready yet.” (I was his first girlfriend.) The further I get from our breakup, the more flaws I see in it, and the happier I am to have dodged that bullet.

What bothers me is that he can afford to sit on his ass telling me Don’t Rush because it won’t be the end of the world if I have to wait another 2 or 3 months to take a breath of fresh gay air outside this musty closet.

I need gay friends.
I need to date a girl.
I need to go to gay events.
I need to go out drinking on Friday nights and mix my own margaritas at home without having to smuggle half the ingredients into my room like I’m in high school.
I need sex.

I’m drowning in an ocean of coats inside this closet, and they’re not even cute leather coats.

Things got a little ugly after that. We began rehashing the end of our relationship and talking about how I was a horrible girlfriend and he was heartless about the breakup and why the fuck didn’t he break up with me in January when I might have at least had time to kick Rose out and find a new roommate.  I’m looking at paying twice what I used to for rent!

I’m trying not to blame him for the way things are right now. I’m trying to remind myself that I have him to thank for doing what I couldn’t do in ending things between us. But there are certain things your straight friends will just never understand.

The me that is living with my parents is a shell of a person. The real me is wandering around somewhere in the city, homeless.

So now, let the apartment wars continue.