I am in love with a photograph. She doesn't love back, but she never changes and that's more than most can promise you.
I keep a spare bedroom for her, here, in my head, should she ever choose to come to life again and dance with me the way that only a memory can.
30 September 2012
29 September 2012
Synonymous
“Some people would call them ‘friends,’” said Cass. “I,
however, choose to label them ‘straight people who try to sleep with me when
they’re drunk and their boyfriends are being assholes.’” She looked up and saw Libby
frowning at her phone and went to pour her another glass of wine.
The Case of the Man who Woke Up as a Woman
I'm not sure why I never posted this, but these are some panels from my senior thesis. It's isn't the whole thing, just a few of them. These are all from the first vignette. This one is based on the story of Tiresias, but it's also got some Freudian dream interpretation thrown in.
Dear man in the Walmart parking lot,
Dear man in the Walmart parking lot who asked me if I like to party and then tried to win me over by spraying me with Ed Hardy perfume when I said, "Not with you,"
Ladies don’t like that.
Sincerely,
Me
Me
26 September 2012
Awards and shit
My flash fiction "The Scar" won an Honorable Mention in Authorstand's Very Short Story Contest. :) Hooray!
http://www.authorstand.com/writing-contests/authorstand--judge-a-writing-contest--very-short-story-contest-3.aspx
http://www.authorstand.com/writing-contests/authorstand--judge-a-writing-contest--very-short-story-contest-3.aspx
23 September 2012
Aquam an undam?
Once upon a time, there was a man who wanted nothing more than a drink of water. He went to the faucet with a glass and turned the handle, but no water came out. He tried all of the faucets in the house, but there was no water. This made the man even thirstier. He went outside and tried the hose, but there was no water there, either. He decided to take his glass and walk into the city. When he arrived, he tried every store and restaurant, but they had no water to offer him. They all told him the same thing, "I'm sorry, sir," they said. "We're fresh out."
The man saw that some customers at these businesses seemed to be drinking water.
"What about that woman over there?" the man asked one restaurant owner. "She looks like she's got a glass of water."
"We sold her our last glass. I'm sorry for the inconvenience," the owner replied.
Just as the man began to walk toward the woman, thinking he might ask for a small sip, she finished the glass in two large gulps. The man walked away, even thirstier than before.
As the man walked through the city, he noticed posters, billboards, advertisements on painted on buses, people in magazine covers, all of them featuring bottles and cups and pools filled with water. The man grew even thirstier.
He walked to the outskirts of the city, where he where he remembered once putting his feet in a cool, clear spring as a boy. When he reached this stream, he found that the spring was no longer cool nor clear. It was muddy, dried up, all slime and fish carcasses, not at all the way it had looked in his memory. Out of desperation, the man bent down on the bank of what used to be the spring. He was so thirsty that he dipped his hands into the slime, quickly withdrawing it to find that a dozen fat leeches had attached themselves to his flesh. Horrified, the man plucked the parasites from his palm and ran from the spring.
His mouth was drier than it had ever been. The man walked for miles and miles. He did not stop to eat or to sleep. Eventually, he came to the ocean. The waves slapped against the shore, and the man was overjoyed. It was more water than he'd seen in his entire life. He ran out toward the water, shouting jubilantly as he went. But by the time that the man was up to his neck in water, he realized that he was not thirsty at all. In fact, he was rather terrified to be in such deep water, having never been properly trained to swim. Just as the thought registered in the man's head, the waves swelled, and the water swallowed him up.
THE END
The man saw that some customers at these businesses seemed to be drinking water.
"What about that woman over there?" the man asked one restaurant owner. "She looks like she's got a glass of water."
"We sold her our last glass. I'm sorry for the inconvenience," the owner replied.
Just as the man began to walk toward the woman, thinking he might ask for a small sip, she finished the glass in two large gulps. The man walked away, even thirstier than before.
As the man walked through the city, he noticed posters, billboards, advertisements on painted on buses, people in magazine covers, all of them featuring bottles and cups and pools filled with water. The man grew even thirstier.
He walked to the outskirts of the city, where he where he remembered once putting his feet in a cool, clear spring as a boy. When he reached this stream, he found that the spring was no longer cool nor clear. It was muddy, dried up, all slime and fish carcasses, not at all the way it had looked in his memory. Out of desperation, the man bent down on the bank of what used to be the spring. He was so thirsty that he dipped his hands into the slime, quickly withdrawing it to find that a dozen fat leeches had attached themselves to his flesh. Horrified, the man plucked the parasites from his palm and ran from the spring.
His mouth was drier than it had ever been. The man walked for miles and miles. He did not stop to eat or to sleep. Eventually, he came to the ocean. The waves slapped against the shore, and the man was overjoyed. It was more water than he'd seen in his entire life. He ran out toward the water, shouting jubilantly as he went. But by the time that the man was up to his neck in water, he realized that he was not thirsty at all. In fact, he was rather terrified to be in such deep water, having never been properly trained to swim. Just as the thought registered in the man's head, the waves swelled, and the water swallowed him up.
THE END
Tongue depressor
Stop spending all your time
depressing and impressing
and just press up against me
press me up against a wall
or a rock or a hard place
depressing and impressing
and just press up against me
press me up against a wall
or a rock or a hard place
The Will
When I am dead, my dearest,
fill a Dixie cup with wine for me.
Don't volunteer to hire the priest,
some stranger to recite pretty lies in my honor.
Don't go to the funeral at all.
Pull the petals off the roses
you bought to comfort my family,
put those petals in a silk bag,
save them,
use them to seduce a misty-eyed brunette
in a little black dress.
Bake your feelings into a cake,
not one from a box;
your feelings require real butter and real chocolate,
not powder and just add water.
Eat it by yourself, all in one sitting.
Eat it with your hands. Don't use a plate.
Your feelings are too messy for forks and knives and napkins.
Stay home and write bad poetry.
Buy a typewriter,
tell yourself you'll use it
to write one haiku per day,
place it on your desk,
let it gather dust,
let it take up space you could use
for something more productive
in memory of me.
fill a Dixie cup with wine for me.
Don't volunteer to hire the priest,
some stranger to recite pretty lies in my honor.
Don't go to the funeral at all.
Pull the petals off the roses
you bought to comfort my family,
put those petals in a silk bag,
save them,
use them to seduce a misty-eyed brunette
in a little black dress.
Bake your feelings into a cake,
not one from a box;
your feelings require real butter and real chocolate,
not powder and just add water.
Eat it by yourself, all in one sitting.
Eat it with your hands. Don't use a plate.
Your feelings are too messy for forks and knives and napkins.
Stay home and write bad poetry.
Buy a typewriter,
tell yourself you'll use it
to write one haiku per day,
place it on your desk,
let it gather dust,
let it take up space you could use
for something more productive
in memory of me.
Undearest/Dearest
You didn't give me nothing.
You gave me a character,
you gave me a story to tell,
which means more to me
than any love
you could've shown me.
You gave me a character,
you gave me a story to tell,
which means more to me
than any love
you could've shown me.
The Happily Ever After
I could hear her from the hallway; I couldn't tell if she was laughing or crying. I knocked, but she ignored me. I knocked again, louder.
"Mag? I'm here. Are you ok?"
No answer. I knocked more frantically.
"Mag? Are you okay? Answer me!"
Nothing.
"Mag, I'm coming in."
The doorknob didn't turn. As I struggled with the doorknob, her hysterical sounds grew louder.
I began to sweat. Something was not right. Mag's mood swings and hysterical displays of emotion had become routine, but something was not right. This wasn't her usual histrionic routine. She'd locked the door, something she would usually never do. She'd never want to keep people out, never want to risk losing her audience, never want to keep people from giving her the attention she needed. Usually Mag's suicide attempts were carried out with the door slightly cracked—not totally open, so that it didn't seem staged, but never, ever locked. She needed to be sure that a passerby could get to her in time to make her puke up the pills, bandage her up, drag her to the hospital. But, no, the door wasn't budging. This was different, all wrong.
What could I do? She wasn't opening the door. She wasn't acknowledging my banging and screaming her name. Could she hear me? Could she not understand that I'd shown up to rescue her, as the script seemed to go?
"Mag. Mag. Mag. What are you doing, baby? I can't get in. I can't get to you. Open up! How can I be your knight in shining armor if I can't get in? Mag, is this a joke? Are you fucking with me, Mag?"
She was quiet. Complete silence, no more crying or laughing, whichever it was. My hands began to shake.
"Fuck, Mag. What can I do, baby? I'm too small. I can't break down the door. I'm not a real fucking knight, Mag! I don't have a fucking sword or armor or any sort of goddamn training for this. I need you to open the door, baby."
She didn't.
I don't know how long I was screaming before two guys from down the hall whose names I'd never bothered to learn came and pulled me away. The taller one grabbed me and began asking me questions while the other worked on the door.
"What's going on?"
"I dunno. I dunno. She's in there, and she locked the door. She doesn't lock the door when she does this. It's a game. Today it's not a game."
"What's a game? Try to calm down for me, okay?"
"Mag. Mag's life. She does this sometimes, but not like this."
"You think she's trying to kill herself?"
"I dunno. I dunno. Something's wrong."
"Should I go get someone? What do you want to do?"
"I want to break down the fucking door."
So, the three of us kicked and pounded and threw our weight against the door until the hinges gave, but Mag was gone by then. Gone, gone, gone.
Her body was all the wrong colors. White and blue, some violet. She'd put red lipstick on, but most of it had smeared off. She wore a white dress, combat boots, white gloves. It was all wrong.
I went to her dresser and took her tiara from the top of her jewelry box. I smoothed down Mag's hair and placed the tiara on her head before kissing her cold mouth.
"Goodnight, my princess."
"Mag? I'm here. Are you ok?"
No answer. I knocked more frantically.
"Mag? Are you okay? Answer me!"
Nothing.
"Mag, I'm coming in."
The doorknob didn't turn. As I struggled with the doorknob, her hysterical sounds grew louder.
I began to sweat. Something was not right. Mag's mood swings and hysterical displays of emotion had become routine, but something was not right. This wasn't her usual histrionic routine. She'd locked the door, something she would usually never do. She'd never want to keep people out, never want to risk losing her audience, never want to keep people from giving her the attention she needed. Usually Mag's suicide attempts were carried out with the door slightly cracked—not totally open, so that it didn't seem staged, but never, ever locked. She needed to be sure that a passerby could get to her in time to make her puke up the pills, bandage her up, drag her to the hospital. But, no, the door wasn't budging. This was different, all wrong.
What could I do? She wasn't opening the door. She wasn't acknowledging my banging and screaming her name. Could she hear me? Could she not understand that I'd shown up to rescue her, as the script seemed to go?
"Mag. Mag. Mag. What are you doing, baby? I can't get in. I can't get to you. Open up! How can I be your knight in shining armor if I can't get in? Mag, is this a joke? Are you fucking with me, Mag?"
She was quiet. Complete silence, no more crying or laughing, whichever it was. My hands began to shake.
"Fuck, Mag. What can I do, baby? I'm too small. I can't break down the door. I'm not a real fucking knight, Mag! I don't have a fucking sword or armor or any sort of goddamn training for this. I need you to open the door, baby."
She didn't.
I don't know how long I was screaming before two guys from down the hall whose names I'd never bothered to learn came and pulled me away. The taller one grabbed me and began asking me questions while the other worked on the door.
"What's going on?"
"I dunno. I dunno. She's in there, and she locked the door. She doesn't lock the door when she does this. It's a game. Today it's not a game."
"What's a game? Try to calm down for me, okay?"
"Mag. Mag's life. She does this sometimes, but not like this."
"You think she's trying to kill herself?"
"I dunno. I dunno. Something's wrong."
"Should I go get someone? What do you want to do?"
"I want to break down the fucking door."
So, the three of us kicked and pounded and threw our weight against the door until the hinges gave, but Mag was gone by then. Gone, gone, gone.
Her body was all the wrong colors. White and blue, some violet. She'd put red lipstick on, but most of it had smeared off. She wore a white dress, combat boots, white gloves. It was all wrong.
I went to her dresser and took her tiara from the top of her jewelry box. I smoothed down Mag's hair and placed the tiara on her head before kissing her cold mouth.
"Goodnight, my princess."
Tiaras
Mag once told me that stories about two girls never have happy endings. I'd never thought about it. I wanted to argue, but I couldn't make a case.
"What about us, Mag?" I finally asked, "Aren't we happy?"
She didn't even take time to consider, just rolled her eyes. "It's not the same."
Realizing she'd hurt my feelings, Mag ruffled my hair and gave me a dismissive smile.
This took place during her tiara phase. One of her little protests against normality, against heteronormativity, against patriarchy, against the mundane and socially acceptable. Mag backed up her tiara phase with this reasoning: "How often does an out bull dyke get to wear a tiara? When I was five, my daddy called me his princess. I'm not giving that up just 'cause I've grown up, and it turns out I'm gay."
"I don't know, Mag," I ventured. "I don't think straight people get to wear crowns much, either."
Pretending she hadn't heard me, she continued her monologue: "What? Just 'cause I'm into women, they take away my crown and my happily ever after gets revoked? It's bullshit. I'm a motherfucking princess, and I'm gonna wear this tiara."
"What about us, Mag?" I finally asked, "Aren't we happy?"
She didn't even take time to consider, just rolled her eyes. "It's not the same."
Realizing she'd hurt my feelings, Mag ruffled my hair and gave me a dismissive smile.
This took place during her tiara phase. One of her little protests against normality, against heteronormativity, against patriarchy, against the mundane and socially acceptable. Mag backed up her tiara phase with this reasoning: "How often does an out bull dyke get to wear a tiara? When I was five, my daddy called me his princess. I'm not giving that up just 'cause I've grown up, and it turns out I'm gay."
"I don't know, Mag," I ventured. "I don't think straight people get to wear crowns much, either."
Pretending she hadn't heard me, she continued her monologue: "What? Just 'cause I'm into women, they take away my crown and my happily ever after gets revoked? It's bullshit. I'm a motherfucking princess, and I'm gonna wear this tiara."
"And I will die a voodoo chile."
People offen ask me, Grampa Oogey Boogey, how is it dat you's a grampa, and you ain't got no kids? And I tell 'em true, I got no kids cuz, I fell in love wit a woman wit a tilted uterus. Dat's what dem doctors tell us. It waddn't dat dere waddn't enough love between us. We got plenty a dat. Plenty a love. Lovin' an' lovin' every mornin' an' every night. But da babies just falled right outta her. I figure dat whoever job it was ta be designin' mah cher spent so much time makin' her outsides lookin' fine, dat dey run outta time on her insides an' done a sloppy job. When mah cher lost chile numba fo', she got to be real sad, cryin' an' cryin' everyday. One day, she cryin' an' I pick her up in my arms, an' I say, "Mah cher, it's gon' be alright, it's gon' be just fine, cuz we already got babies of our own. All dem voodoo chill'en out dere, dem's our babies. All dem li'l chill'en who believe in magic, dat's our chile." And she stopped her cryin', and she smiled at me, and she said, "Honey, I do believe dat's some load a bullshit." She lef' me not long afta dat, moved to Florida an' took up wit one a dem smooth-skinned Hispanics. Not a day goes by dat I ain't missin' mah cher. She was wrong about dem voodoo chill'en, no—dem's mah babies and dem always gon' be mah babies an' I love 'em all just like dey was mah own blood. Dat's what voodoo does. Dat magic gets up in your blood, and you's chained to all dem other voodoo chill'ens like dey was yo' own. And, well, I'm an ol' man now. Ol' Grampa Oogey Boogey, and I still got dat magic in my blood dat every voodoo chile got. I'm still chained, and I'll stay chained til dey put me in da ground.
20 September 2012
Marie Antoinette Chik-Fil-A Cow
I doodled this when I was bored during a meeting in celebration of Chik-Fil-A stopping anti-gay donations. It's a Marie Antoinette Chik-Fil-A cow saying, "Let them eat chikin!" :)
16 September 2012
The Queer Fury and The Bicurious Wonder!
My superheroes, The Queer Fury and The Bicurious Wonder (drawn on a sticky note when we weren't busy at work)
05 September 2012
For Rico, Jack's Last Request
When I am dead, my dearest Rico, please do not attend the funeral.
Please, do not squeeze yourself into that black dress on my account.
Do not spend days agonizing over which wig to wear—the black,
pinstraight bob says mourning but the blonde Goldie Hawn looks so
good on. Please, my darling Rico, don't plaster over your eye brows
and paint new ones on your glittering brow bones. Don't go with the
gold eye shadow. Don't wear that same red lipstick that you wore the
last time that we kissed. Oh, god, Rico, and please, whatever you do,
do not make a speech. Do not mingle with my family and friends at the
memorial, and then halfway through the service, don't stand up and blurt
out some bullshit about how you were the true love of my life. Do not get
into a catfight with my wife over my casket. Do not get into a who-can-sob-
louder-and-is-therefore-more-emotionally-distressed-by-this-event-and-
therefore-loved-me-more match with my mother. Remember, Rico, you are
a lady. My lady. Do not introduce yourself to my boss as, "Coco, a very
close friend of Jack's," emphasis on the close. My darling, Rico, whatever
you do, do not have one of your episodes upon seeing my in my coffin.
Do not grab my lifeless body by the lapels and sob about how I was taken
from you too soon. Do not get on your knees in that cocktail dress. Do not
rip off your matching vintage hat—the one with the little netted veil—and
throw it across the room before balling up your fists and beating the ground
hysterically and shouting, "Whywhywhy!" Please, Rico, if you ever loved
me at all, then when I am dead, my dearest, please stay at home. Do not
change out of the silk bathrobe I bought you in Barcelona. Do not do your
makeup. Do not do your hair. Do not leave the house. Order in from Harry's.
Buy yourself two desserts. (Don't pretend you're worried about getting fat;
you always eat mine, anyway.) Drink that champagne we've been saving.
Drink it right out of the bottle. Put on Funny Girl. Watch it three times and
recite all of the words. (I won't be there to let your know how annoying
it is when you do that.) Don your fur-lined slippers in my honor. Cry if you
must, but only if you must. Take comfort in knowing that I was naked in your
arms, and everything else that I ever did was just drag, part of a persona. Get
angry that the love of your life was so artificial, if you must. Call for more
champagne. Watch Funny Girl again. Fall asleep. Wake up. Take two
aspirin with a glass of water. Pull the covers over your head. Close your
eyes. Start to feel better.
Please, do not squeeze yourself into that black dress on my account.
Do not spend days agonizing over which wig to wear—the black,
pinstraight bob says mourning but the blonde Goldie Hawn looks so
good on. Please, my darling Rico, don't plaster over your eye brows
and paint new ones on your glittering brow bones. Don't go with the
gold eye shadow. Don't wear that same red lipstick that you wore the
last time that we kissed. Oh, god, Rico, and please, whatever you do,
do not make a speech. Do not mingle with my family and friends at the
memorial, and then halfway through the service, don't stand up and blurt
out some bullshit about how you were the true love of my life. Do not get
into a catfight with my wife over my casket. Do not get into a who-can-sob-
louder-and-is-therefore-more-emotionally-distressed-by-this-event-and-
therefore-loved-me-more match with my mother. Remember, Rico, you are
a lady. My lady. Do not introduce yourself to my boss as, "Coco, a very
close friend of Jack's," emphasis on the close. My darling, Rico, whatever
you do, do not have one of your episodes upon seeing my in my coffin.
Do not grab my lifeless body by the lapels and sob about how I was taken
from you too soon. Do not get on your knees in that cocktail dress. Do not
rip off your matching vintage hat—the one with the little netted veil—and
throw it across the room before balling up your fists and beating the ground
hysterically and shouting, "Whywhywhy!" Please, Rico, if you ever loved
me at all, then when I am dead, my dearest, please stay at home. Do not
change out of the silk bathrobe I bought you in Barcelona. Do not do your
makeup. Do not do your hair. Do not leave the house. Order in from Harry's.
Buy yourself two desserts. (Don't pretend you're worried about getting fat;
you always eat mine, anyway.) Drink that champagne we've been saving.
Drink it right out of the bottle. Put on Funny Girl. Watch it three times and
recite all of the words. (I won't be there to let your know how annoying
it is when you do that.) Don your fur-lined slippers in my honor. Cry if you
must, but only if you must. Take comfort in knowing that I was naked in your
arms, and everything else that I ever did was just drag, part of a persona. Get
angry that the love of your life was so artificial, if you must. Call for more
champagne. Watch Funny Girl again. Fall asleep. Wake up. Take two
aspirin with a glass of water. Pull the covers over your head. Close your
eyes. Start to feel better.
04 September 2012
Fast Learner
I think that part of the problem must be that I immediately understood in preschool when the teachers said that the golden rule was to treat others as you would like to be treated, while most people I’ve encountered thus far are still trying to make sense of that one.
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