Being queer is a (cough) rainbow of emotions, that's for sure. Our community makes me feel unity and togetherness and joy and hope, and it's okay that I also feel disconnected and regretful and frustrated and tired and on and on, because family is a complex thing and — sing it with me — we
Fairy tale tropes for a midwestern gothic are tantalizingly familiar, and when I think of home I see them all, their archetypes and allegories, characters we connect with in a malaise not beyond a garden wall, but right here, with us— in a place of enervated belief and heuristic magic.
Queer sex is not like straight sex. I don't mean the body-mechanics of it, necessarily, I mean the everything else of it. The emotion, the impetus, the follow-through, the mathematics. Queer sex is just different (and better!).
This is the year I'm choosing love, so I guess that goes for myself as well. Hail, Mary, hale and weal, it's time to forgive myself.
It's time we stop victim-blaming the Eight of Swords, y'all.