Everywhere feels cursed to the point where I think I’m cursed. I look good, so I take at least seven selfies in my living room, which is where I’ve spent most of my time lately, because I hate leaving my apartment, but I also hate my bed. I put on a blazer and a dark green cropped tank and black jeans. I’m 26, and I put on makeup and real clothes for the first time in many days. But they were also wild in the sense that wow I really didn’t know what I was doing or who I was for a while there, huh, and wow I’ve been at least four different people over the spanse of ten years like, jesus, remember when I was telling people I was a TOP? ME? A TOP? Who was she? Who am I? What will I become? My twenties were indeed wild in all the cliche ways of drunk nights and bad choices and mediocre sex and shoes that gave me blisters. I’m labyrinthing the last decade of my life on the page, because this wild approach to structure is the only thing that makes sense to me as I look back. I’m 29, and I’m writing this essay outside on my balcony in Miami.
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I’m 23, and I tell a girl on Tinder I love the movie But I’m A Cheerleader even though I’ve never seen it. And when I carry her around in my shirt like a mama kangaroo, I don’t know that she’ll only be in my life for a year or so, don’t know how this tiny stinky perfect cat is going to become a main character in couples counseling one day. We got the kitten from a shelter in the suburbs of New Jersey, and she’s tiny and stinky. You will soon I just haven’t decided where she belongs. I’m 25, and I’ve just adopted a little calico kitten with my girlfriend, who won’t be my girlfriend much longer, who is also the girl who couldn’t remember Rachel Bilson’s name, but you haven’t met her or heard that story yet. She’ll come back into my life at the exact right time and the exact right place, but she’ll also want to rehash the past, and I only really do that in essays. It implodes the friendship between me and the girl I’m really crushing on, and we’re both confused about a lot of things, and one of our coworkers keeps asking if we’re secretly dating, if we’re secretly breaking up every time we argue at a party, something we do kinda a lot. So I sleep with him and go to a James Blake concert with him and, weirdly, buy him a satchel of cool rocks for his birthday even though we are not dating and he has not told me he wants a satchel of cool rocks and if anything what I really want is for someone to buy me a satchel of cool rocks. I’m deeply closeted, so I’m operating on closet logic, which is not so logical at all, and closet logic tells me to pivot and project the crush onto her best guy friend. I’m 21, and I have a crush on my friend, but I don’t yet have the language to call it a crush even though I do know what a crush looks and feels like, but it’s different if it’s a girl - then it’s just an intense friendship, right? Our friendship is, indeed, intense.
She drives us just fine, slows down, takes care.
She says I’ve never seen rain fall sideways like this before, and I say that’s not rain, and I describe what a “wintry mix” is, and I ask if we should pull over, if we should switch drivers, because I’ve driven in snow in Michigan, in Virginia, in Vermont, in Colorado.
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I’m 27, and my girlfriend has only seen snow a few times in her life, and we’re driving cross-country, a little dog in the backseat and the trunk full of everything we think we need for five months of life together. Sometimes those lives touch, but most of the time, I am desperate to keep them separate, to leave myself cleaved. I’m 20, and I live two lives: one on Tumblr and one in an ugly brown house in Ann Arbor that I’ll revisit over and over in future dreams. The 200 Best Lesbian, Bisexual & Queer Movies Of All Time.LGBTQ Television Guide: What To Watch Now.