I hate my hometown. I can’t even begin to express how much I hate my hometown. Coming back is like coming back to a house full of amnesiacs who constantly ask why I’m always going on about that gay stuff and when I remind them that I’m bisexual they are properly shocked and ask “But what does that mean for your boyfriend?” Every home visit may or may not be another coming out. I’ve come out to my mother three times and she is shocked every time. I would laugh if I weren’t so bothered by that ambiguous combination of “Oh, darling. You know I’ll always love you right?” and the offense they feel when their celebrities receive backlash for homophobic comments. Simply put, it’s as if I never told them a thing.
Perhaps that’s been the game all along. Consciously or unconsciously I’ve asked them for years to take a definitive stance, to either acknowledge me and accept me for the person I am or acknowledge me and own their disgust. I cut my hair. I cut it shorter and shorter and one day there will be nothing left. Do you see it now? Does it elude you still? Your girl-child is incurably queer. I am so sorry to break it to you.
Another year, another forgotten memo to pick blueberries in the town where I used to live. On some level I knew that the cold was on its way, but I was much too busy to notice when the temperature began to skydive. It really wasn’t until around a week ago that I noticed–a library copy of American Psycho in one hand and school on my mind–that it was pretty fucking cold. This is the time of year when I start making awkward, gushing asides about how I would really prefer anything to being cold. I would rather starve. I would rather flush my Klonopin down the toilet. I would rather stop taking my thyroid medication immediately–an example I really ought to stop using since I would just go back to being cold anyways if I let my thyroid have its way. Anyhow, it’s a crap habit anyhow and I am grateful to be surrounded by people who either understand the seasonal blues that urge me to say such things or simply don’t care. Really, either one is fine.
But this one may be different, may I hope? In the past months the cat has become large and warm and so cute. At this moment she’s curled up on the futon, one paw stretched out, snoring. And I’ve found so many things to make the winter seem almost like a party–incense, an army of candles, frozen packages of cookies from the local supermarket. And only now does it dawn on me that this is the season that allows me to stay snuggled and cozy inside my house without my friends wondering if something terrible is behind my unwillingness to socialize. Oh, I imagine they’ll say, it’s winter, isn’t it? Where would we be but inside, where it’s warm? And we all win.
Still, the public won’t be too bad, provided that the workplace isn’t set at the freezing point. With my assignments gradually shrinking to nothing, I have the next month and a half ahead of me to check out books and read them on the couch with the cat, to rewatch John Mulaney’s New in Town for the 11th time on Netflix, to eat all of the ham and swiss sandwiches I can fit in my stomach, etc., etc., etc.
At this point I really don’t have the slightest clue why I keep this thing. No matter how I look at it, this dirty habit of letting words fall out of my mouth is a vain and terrible thing, but so what? It’s not as if I have some gargantuan readership that is hanging on my every word, so I suppose it doesn’t matter either way. Ha! Regardless, I plan on keeping this self-centered pursuit as long as I have inane, rambling things to say (which I always will). Perhaps I’ll become more interesting along the way.