Sometimes I’m scared.

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This spring, Hoss and I went to the local university’s queer formal. It was a pretty normal thing: lots of queers dancing and screaming to songs that were in a grey zone of being incredibly gay while not being gay enough. If I can’t recognize the singer, you need to up the gay. I drank some cake-flavored vodka in a parking lot with a genderfuck and stood around smoking, while amateur drag queens and a tiny little Amadeus climbed up the steps. Hoss and I aren’t much for dancing, so we headed home. On the way out, I think he dared me to or I just have the natural inclination to steal things (shrug), but I grabbed a life-size Hello Kitty balloon on the way out. We ran down the street with her trailing behind us in the wind, shoved her into the car, and drove to Hoss’s apartment where she has remained ever since.

In the arms of an angel ...

In the arms of an angel …

But in all seriousness, this is not something to be taken lightly. Hoss’s apartment was clearly haunted before, what with the flickering light bulbs and the Wilhelm screams, and we clearly just gave the demon a vessel.

As time passed, Kitty-san’s power grew. Three weeks ago, I was alone in the apartment writing, and she was just hopping around the room, floating around the kitchen. One time, when I looked up, she was gone. This naturally made me nervous, so I went to look for her, figuring that it was better to know where a demon is than to not know. She had floated into the bedroom, looking into the closet with those uncannily wide set eyes. She probably wanted my leather daddy jacket, if I had to guess. She follows me around the house as I get ready every morning. Since basically everyone who lives in the apartment is MIA, Kitty-san the demon is our new roommate. Visitors regularly punch her and tackle her, putting our very immortal souls in danger.

Did I mention that she only has one leg? SpoooOooOopy!

Did I mention that she only has one leg? SpoooOooOopy!

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Roll call

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PUNK ETHICS! DRUGS! ADVENTURE!

Now that I have your attention, I’m trying really hard to find other bloggers who are interested in some of the above things. If you are interested, we should be friends! Comment with a link to your blog!

OTHER INTERESTS: ZINES, DIY, MIXOLOGY, ALCOHOL, URBAN FANTASY, SELF-PUBLISHING, WEED, SATAN, CREATIVE NONFICTION, SOCIALLY CONSCIOUS WRITING, QUEERNESS

Weirdos need each other. I know you’re out there somewhere.

Drag Day – Part 2

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Check out the first part here.

The show was over, the day had been long, but the night would make it longer still. We trudged back to the car, our sneakers freezing in the snow.

The party was at a friend’s, and we were one of the first to arrive. As people started filing in, we put Die Antwoord’s “Fatty Boom Boom” on the stereo to liven things up. The hostess was not amused. A slew of twenty people came in, and went for the liquor. I know a lot of people in the town’s queer community, but I didn’t know any of these fuckers. Hoss was getting the keg of PBR ready.

monkeys and shit

Drinks in hand, we went outside for a cig. The party’s number tripled, the sea of queerdom pushing out more people onto the balcony with us. It wasn’t long before the weed came out. A girl who was smoking in state for the first time shared her bowl with us. A couple we know shared a joint with us, which they dropped, and a woman with small hands had to pick it out of the boards of the balcony. I distinctly remember yelling at someone, calling them “silly prickly pear.”

Through the glass door we could see that a game of spin the bottle or Fuck the Dealer or something, the entirety of the living room floor full of people sitting cross-legged. Someone walked back inside, and a cheer of multitudes, like a battle cry, escaped the apartment. I had been drinking all day, so I shouted “Crikey!”. What can I say? It is in my nature to cry inane things when I’m inebriated.

The after-party was growing more and more insane. Somehow the whole girl’s rugby team from the local college was inside. (I later learned that they kind of show up everywhere. Good on you, female rugby team.) The crowd was getting much drunker, and rowdier. We decided to follow a guy who had been wasted at the show, devouring his boyfriend’s face (in a sexual manner, of course), and was now stumbling around the party. It was partly a matter of conscientiousness, but mostly it was just free fun.

I remember it was after seeing the pile of shoes that I started freaking out. It was gigantic. Clogs, heels, chucks, Uggs, and boots flooded the hallway to the entrance. The pile was at least one foot deep, and several feet across (get it?). It may have also had something to do with a bunch of youthful gays running around and pouring their tearful hearts and souls into drunken phone calls. With a gay couple with whom we are friends, and a couple beers, we shoved through the crowd of rowdy drunks.

We went over to a friend’s vacant house to wait out the storm. There was Netflix, thank God, and a bong. While we were looting her house for weed, I had several communal nature moments via her cat. Hoss found the weed, and the light of the heavens shone on his face.

After a while, we went back to the party. Things had happened, to be sure. When the host saw me, he gave a cry of relief and hugged me. I asked him what the sitch was. There was word of some skinny guy who had passed out drunk in the snow, and the cops had shown up, and the host thought I was dead.

Meanwhile, Hoss was getting into a drinking contest with some motherfucker with flowers in his beard, and was putting him in his place. The guy was out before the third shot.

Then, too drunk to drive, we went back to crashing in the missing friend’s house, the cats humping our legs as we slept.

Juana de Mary is my only true love

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Everything’s a little more interesting when you’re not sober. For instance: while I am here at my home in Rhadamanthus Acres where we whip our elderly, heterosexual, white slaves I must be sneaky with the smoking of my cannabis. So, while I load my pipe which I have named Tweedle Dee which has orange double helices running down its sides with Lemon G, a weak hybrid as hybrids go, I think about my first time entering the exquisite world of THC.

It was early in the first semester of my freshman year. I had decided that I would get over this not having tried weed thing as soon as possible. In truth, the opportunity had presented itself before in the form of my dread-haired philosophy roommate Jacob, who held a Med-card. An annoying roommate, but generous with his connections.

They look like tie-dyed gargoyle penises.

They look like tie-dyed gargoyle penises.

Anyways,  he invited me on an excursion he and the other resident stoner had arranged for the dorm floor. He gave me a chunk of a white chocolate bar, the taste of weed overpowering. Then all the guys on the floor congregated outside, having eaten their rations.

We went for a walk. Our objective was to get to a popular shopping district in town, but we never made it. We were walking through campus, the guys I hated giggling hysterically while I walked with my head down, ripping up the leaves I snatched from bushes. We got off campus and walked down a hill. My roommate proposed that we stop in a bakery called Baked, because irony is a thing.

There were a lot of people inside. Too many. One of our guys walked up to the counter and ordered a box of chocolate chips and a pint of milk. My roommate asked if he could have a “just a little bit” of a cookie. With permission, he ripped out a substantial hunk. The rest of us followed suit.

But all was not right with the stoners. One of them was hiding his face in the crook of his arm and the surface of the table. He was tapping his feet with the beat of a machine gun. Then, as if he had had too much of the place, he got up and slammed the door behind him, the bell ringing shrilly. His comrade followed him at a brisk pace. That’s when I realized I was high.

The rest of us continued, unperturbed. We passed by our school’s theater, which struck fear into my heart with its stark lights and gory red banners, with steps that climbed all the up to the sky like an Aztec temple.

One of our guys commented on the picturesque nature of the school’s library. It lay at the end of a vast green dotted with trees and hedges. It stood at the top of its steps with an air of majesty about its columns.

I opened my mouth for the first time that night: “I see you’re a classicist, eh?”

No one answered, and I shut up until we got back to the dorm.

The door closing behind my roommate and I, I started turning the light on and off as a reality check. When he asked what I was doing, I started rambling about the nature of reality and other philosophical nonsense excitedly. He then told me that at that moment, the only moment where I really felt like discussing philosophy, he could not discuss the only thing he ever talked about while sober.

The next day I woke up late for class, remembered I had an anthropology test, ran like a maniac to the building, failed the test, and giggled about it with my roommate.

OTHER BLITHER AND DRIBBLE: I’ve started an experiment in ornithology and marijuana which I have dubbed 100 Bird Facts. Check it out.