Trauma

The clock seems stuck at 6:18 PM. I am attending my third Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder support group meeting and this session, like the other sessions, is dragging on. Annie is again recounting her harrowing encounter with a jar of pickles that simply would not open. Charles still has frequent panic attacks as he remembers that one time someone called him fat in sixth grade. He puts down his bag of Takis to wipe tears from his face. 6:19 PM.

Rachel, our moderator, nods with a false solidarity that makes me roll my eyes hard enough to cause a nosebleed. She address Charles, then the group, saying, "Charles, thank you for sharing. Guys, what Charles' story tells us is that sometimes hurt-hurt doesn't hurt as bad as word-hurt." My internal groan must be visible on my face, as Rachel holds her gaze on me for just a bit too long.

"Skywalker," to avoid giving out my real name I've told them my parents were avid Star Wars fans, "this is your third session yet you still haven't come out of your shell."

"I used to bullseye womp rats in my T-16 back home, they're not much bigger than two meters." Instinct.

"You're quoting again. Remember, you're Skywalker the man, not Skywalker the character." A part of me wishes I had told them my parents named me Jar Jar. "We've discussed your parents and their... interesting name choices for their children, but we haven't discussed much of you. Why don't you start with what brought you here? What was the moment that made you realize your burden was too great to bear alone? What made you need this support group?" 

I gesture to my peers. "Dey not ready."

"Hey asshole, all I've done here is bear my fucking soul, okay?" Tim, a man recovering from four years spent wearing all of his shirts inside out, stands to drive home his indignance. His fly is open; I say nothing.

Rachel motions him to sit. "Tim, please. Safe zone, safe zone, safe zone." Turning back to me, she says "We are here to help you. Each one of us know that sometimes life can be just a bit much to handle on our own." 

"Yeah, especially with Texas weather," interjects Annie, drawing a solid laugh from the group. These people laugh at weather jokes but won't even politely smile during my what's-the-deal-with-postmodern-literary-theory bit. Fucking plebeians.

The pain I carry within my heart is enough to break most men. My steadfast defiance in refusing to share with my peers is not meant to isolate myself; it is meant to protect them. To stare into the abyss that is my agony is to watch with glassed eyes as one's humanity drifts into nothingness, never to return. No, no they cannot be made privy to my soul and all the madness contained therein. 

"Just this one time, Skywalker, and you won't be forced to share ever again. Please." Her persistence serves as a prelude to the death of her own innocence. 

"...Fine." I sit up on my exercise ball (we have all been sitting on exercise balls instead of chairs, I'm not sure if that is relevant information) and begin my story in earnest. 

"I had went out for a Sunday drive one early afternoon. It was an absolutely beautiful day, hardly a cloud in the sky. When I close my eyes I can still feel the crispness in the air." I pause to close my eyes for dramatic effect. "The sun was shining, children were playing, Donald Trump hadn't begun his run for the presidency. Chuckle, yeah, those were good times. But they weren't to last." 

Annie interrupts, "Did he say 'chuckle?'" Annie, just don't. 

My peers have ceased gently bouncing on their exercise balls as to better hear my tale of woe and misfortune. "I... I get to a stop sign. I stop because... it was a stop sign. One of the red ones, y'know? My window was down, so I took in a deep breath to absorb the freshness of the day and... that's when he came in.

"A small bird flew into my car. He seemed nice at first, and I even thought he was kind of handsome. He rested on my wheel ever so gently, and sang the most beautiful of songs. But then I left the stop sign, and he wasn't so nice anymore. He started violently flying inside of my car. The window was open so I tried to politely shoo him outside but he just wouldn't take no for an answer. I remember smelling alcohol on his beak.

"And then... and then... he..." tears are welling in my eyes, "...he shat all over my car. I had never seen a bird or any other animal shit so much in my life. He shat in the back seat, the front seat, he shat on my dashboard, he shat on the doors and he..." Unable to maintain eye contact with the group I stare at the floor and whisper, "he even shat on me. Like I was a whore.

"When it was all over, he didn't say anything. He just took my dignity and left me on the side of the road covered in bird shit. I just... he... oh god." I am sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh god why? Why?" The group, with nary a word, gathers around me so that we may all embrace. For the first time in a long time I feel a sense of hope for my future, a sense that my wounds will heal yet. Perhaps there is life after bird shit? As we hug it out I look up at the clock.

6:20 PM. How the fuck is that even possible.

Weather

Hiya, neighbor! Looks like you're trying to get inside your apartment to drop off all those groceries you're currently holding! Oh fucking well, you are now committed to entertaining my mildly dull banter for another three, maybe four minutes! Long time no see! Golly! Has it really been a whole two days since we last saw each other, making my use of the phrase "long time no see" entirely inappropriate!? It has, and it does! Phrases are weird!

I AM GOING TO CONTINUE THE REST OF THIS CONVERSATION AT A DECIBEL LEVEL TOO HIGH GIVEN THE CONTEXT BUT NOT LOUD ENOUGH TO WARRANT A FORMAL COMPLAINT.

Crazy weather we're having, right? You'd imagine that after 40 plus years living in Texas the changing of seasons would have lost their luster upon my person, but no. No. Y'know how the temperature drops gradually enough that any dipshit with working skin would be able to plan accordingly for the impending winter? I sure as fuck don't, because it always catches me by surprise! Oh Mother Nature, you sneaky cunt, you!

Let's quickly discuss sports, because society has taught me that football and basketball are safe conversations to have with a black man. Excuse me, man of color. Colored. Sorry, African-American-colored man. Did you see that team win that game? Because they won it. The game, that is.

Anecdote about that one time I tackled a dude in high school and got a concussion, which explains much of my current disposition and gets better each time I tell it which is every time because this is the only anecdote I have like seriously what the fuck I'm not even trying when I talk to people I just shove this faux-concussion anecdote into as many fucking situations as I can and always deliver it with this really phony somberness - that would be right at home in a Lifetime movie - without regard to either the current tone or direction of the conversation and to top it all off I don't even mix up how I tell the story, same fucking inflections same fucking pauses while I look off into the distance like I was recounting my time in Vietnam and then I'll act somewhat indignant when you have nothing to add to a story you have heard more times than any one man should hear a story. 

But yeah, like we were saying (but mostly I was saying because despite being boring as shit I still manage to dominate all conversations we have), weather makes birds fly and stuff. 

Okay, I think I've stalled just long enough for that sherbet in your bag to melt awkwardly over the rest of your food so bye! 

Switch

Dear Dr. Coats,

There's no real easy way to go about this so I'll just come out and say it- I've switched bodies with my 9 year old son and I don't know what to do about it. Let me explain. A few days ago we were shopping in a real ethnic Europeany part of town when we found a posh antique vase store that specialized in selling antique vases. Once inside I spotted a vase that would have looked great in my bathroom and told my son to grab it. My son, being the useless little shit that he is, dropped the vase immediately. Apparently it belonged to a long line of Gypsy witches and apparently Gypsy witches are assholes.

The proprietor of the store said we were cursed with the Freaky Friday starring Lindsay Lohan spell, which caused my son and me to switch bodies for an undetermined amount of time. Although I've been killing it in third grade (literally killed a kid in dodgeball, by the way) I do miss having a man sized penis, plus my son has been having a montage-worthy series of hilarious mishaps with my wife and colleagues at work. Without resorting to an act of true love or other things that don't exist, how do we get our bodies back?


Someone With Itsy Teeny Child Hands



Dear SWITCH,

Now that is a killer pen name. Readers, this is the type of thoughtful, moderately clever pseudonym I'd like to see more of.

There are three basic types of Body Switcheroonies™: twin and twin, person and dog, parent and child. If someone were to tell you they swapped bodies with their grandpa or something equally ridiculous, rest assured that they are fucking lying. Those three, that's it.

Twins often forego returning to their original bodies because literally no one gives a shit, and the majority of person/dog swaps result in the euthanization of said dog (who is really a person [but dies as a dog]). Parent and child Body Switcheroonies™, luckily, have a much higher rate of Original Body Reacquisition®.

The first and most important step in any successful OBR® is to continue living the life of your current body as normally as possible. For you this means to act like the pathetic spaz your son actually is rather than a normally functioning child. Your son should take extended sick leave for work (tell them he has Acute Aids, it's super trendy right now) and tell your wife/his mom that he can't have sex with her for the foreseeable future because she has really let herself go and he's considering getting a divorce. This should buy you guys enough time to enact step two. Now, step two is actually pretty simple: you need to kill yourselves some gypsies. A lot of gypsies. Like, a Holocaust level of gypsies.

You see, each Gypsy Soul Curse© costs a rather arbitrary amount of Roma souls to both cast and uncast. The cost for the initial GSC© was paid for when your asshole of a son dropped the vase (pronounced Vah-Se-Ut-Ah in Gypsy) releasing a number of gypsy souls. What you need to do now is go back to the antique vase store, find out how many souls were trapped inside, then kill Gypsies at your leisure. It's best to not go overboard with the number of Roma you murder per day, as police and society tend to frown on genocide.

Roma, as the name implies, are a people often on the move so it can be difficult to track down enough to kill/soul harvest. A good place to start your quest would be to visit any local establishments that offer tarot card readings, palm readings, mind readings, or any other readings that don't involve books. Roma tend to run these establishments, as I've read in Playfully Racist Bullshit Weekly. Another hot spot for hunting Gypsy would be weddings. Or more specifically, big fat weddings. I'm not sure how a wedding can be fat, but if you find a fat wedding you'll probably find some Gypsies. Happy Hunting!


Dr. Coats

Muslim

Dear Dr. Coats,

When the youngest of my three daughters, Charmander, was 14 she told me she was a lesbian. Being from a small conservative town in Arkansas this threw me for a loop. My husband and I argued to high Heaven with Charmander for years and years trying to change her mind. It was hard, but eventually we made peace with her lifestyle and learned to love our daughter for who she is. Plus we have two normal daughters, so we figure two out of three ain't bad.

Now she's 23 and has started dating a Pakistani. Oh tickle my pickle and lick my grapefruits! There has to be only two lesbian Pakistani in all of Arkansas and my daughter has to meet one of them. I have nothing against Pakistan and its people, it's just a little much y'know? Lesbian and Middle Easterner. Also my daughter's girlfriend is a Muslim, and if I find out she had anything to do with 9/11 I'll have a heart attack. As a respectable and well-endowed Christian woman, how should I go about telling my daughter I disapprove of who she scissors her time with?

Really Active Christian Idealist Seeks Teaching

Dear RACIST,

Some parts of your story don't seem to be adding up. You said your daughter was 14 then one paragraph later she's suddenly 23? Children don't grow up that fast. You claim to be a devout Christian yet you name your daughter after a Generation I Pokemon? Generation II is all that matters, you filthy casual. You say you are from Arkansas but you know how to read and write? Girl, please (read that as "guuuurrrrrll pleaaazze," and imagine that I snap my fingers all sassy-like because that is what I am doing right now). Regardless, I have your letter in one hand and a glass of Relevant Seasonal Beverage in the other, so I may as well answer your question.

It was very brave of you and your husband to accept your daughter for her deviant sexual preferences. It is unfortunate that, regardless of how noble a life she may lead, she will be damned to the fiery pits of Hell for all eternity just for being attracted to members of her own sex, but rules are rules. Make sure she's not eating shrimp too, otherwise she'll go to Super Hell. It's like regular Hell only everyone talks using gratuitous air quotes.

While you may be apprehensive about your daugther's Middle Eastern girlfriend you truly have nothing to fear. Middle Easterners are just like you or me, but there are a few safety tips you should abide by to avoid any unnecessary conflict.

• Make noise when the girlfriend stops by your house. Middle Easterners hate to be suprised so be sure to make your prescence known.
• Travel in groups when around the girlfriend. Groups make more noise and appear more formidable to Middle Easterners.
• Do not leave food out in the open when the girlfriend is around. Middle Easterners have a very keen sense of smell and will be attracted to strong odors.
• Do not allow the girlfriend to eat human food. If a Middle Easterner eats human food, even once, they become very aggressive and must be either relocated or put down.
• If the girlfriend approaches or charges at you DO NOT RUN. Middle Easterners will often "bluff charge" their way out of threatening situations, so running away will only serve to excite them and put you in danger.
• If the girlfriend gets too close stand your ground, wave your arms above your head, and talk (don't scream) loudly. Middle Easterners will often leave if they see their prey is aggressive.
• Carry around Middle Eastern Spray. It is a non-toxic, non-lethal spray that will deter the girlfriend, giving you time to escape.
• In the rare occasion that the girlfriend has attacked you, lie face down on the ground and put your hands over the back of your neck. Continue playing dead until the girlfriend has left. Middle Easterners often do not go after already dead prey.

Following the aformentioned safety tips should ensure that you find your daughter's girlfriend a wonderful addition to your family. For further inquiries contact the campground kiosk or the nearest park ranger.  

Dr. Coats

Weight

Much hullabaloo is being made by the social justice warrior community over the tangentially related issues of obesity, body acceptance, and fat shaming. Gone are the days of enjoying a cheap laugh at the expense of Fat Albert or an impromptu Truffle Shuffle. Instead, the overweight are to be sympathized, protected, respected, and even desired (WHY THE FUCK ARE DAD BODS A THING HOW DID THIS BECOME A THING). Lost in the parade of self-efficacy nonsense are the very real consequences obesity has on both the individual and the nation. Is it impossible to preach healthy lifestyles without destroying one's self-esteem? Is fat the new black? Why utilize rhetorical questions? Don't I know it's a rather lazy way to frame discussion? How long should I keep this paragraph going? Should I stop now? How about now? What's a hypotenuse?    

The argument goes that a large portion of America's overweight population literally cannot lose weight. Some scientists have both posited and proved the existence of "fat genes," genes which basically predispose one to carry more weight than is normal.  It's interesting to note that scientists have also discovered smoking genes and pedophile genes, biological markers that leave one susceptible to Cuban cigars and small children, respectively. Strangely enough, neither of the aforementioned activities are defended by the well-what-can-I-do-I-was-born-this-way crowd.

Rational human beings understand that genes that predispose one to be overweight are different from the genes that predispose one to be six feet tall. Emphasis on rational. 

Of the types of maladies that would effect one's weight loss hypothyroidism is one of the most commonly discussed. While not impossible for those living with hypothyroidism to lose weight, one must be empathetic to their plight. However, only 4.6% of the US population has hypothyroidism while 69% are overweight and/or obese. Assuming that every American with hypothyroidism is overweight (they aren't), that would mean 64.4% of the US population has, at best, a weak argument as to why they are overweight.  

If one is going to say "big is beautiful," one must follow up that sentiment with "and also really fucking expensive." The annual cost of American obesity in 2008 was $147 billion and that number has only continued to rise. Obese employees miss more work than non-obese employees and, once they are able to make it to work, are less productive than their healthy weight peers. 

But enough keyboard science. Can we be real with one another? I mean real real. *rolls up sleeves and sits in chair backwards* Let's go back to fat shaming, or the idea of fat shaming. Insulting an overweight person for the sake of insulting an overweight person is unnecessarily cruel and useless. Offering advice or encouragement to an overweight person to lose weight, however, should not be considered fat shaming.

Steady your keyboards, SJWs. Being overweight is as legitimate a lifestyle as being a smoker. To not only defend such a lifestyle but encourage it is entirely disingenuous. Expanding on the idea of smokers, look how we as society treat them. Smokers are pretty much not allowed to smoke in any building these days, are constantly bombarded with ads telling them they are killing themselves, and - having experienced this firsthand as a former smoker myself - few will hesitate to publicly berate smokers for their lifestyle choice. As much as I roll my eyes when I see a commercial with some skateboarding anthropomorphic dinosaur encouraging children to not smoke BECAUSE SMOKING IS MOST UN-RADICAL, at the very least I agree with the message: smoking is bad. It is bad for the health of the individual and the health of the community.

"Well, yeah" says the dipshit arguing with me in my head, "that's smoking. It's completely different from being overweight." No, no it's not. Both are lifestyle choices that result in entirely preventable health problems that negatively impact the individual, the nation, and everything in between. Neither can be defended as harmless.

Therein lies my biggest gripe with the anti-fat shaming vanguards of the world; they think being fat is a legitimate lifestyle. Before you grab your pitchforks - which probably double as your actual forks (okay that was mean-spirited but hey, I'm an asshole) - participate in a short exercise with me. Think of all the arguments used to defend the overweight and obese. Genetics, personal choice, the idea that one can be overweight yet have a medically clear bill of health, etc. Now for each of those arguments replace "overweight" with "anorexic." Both are on the same spectrum of weight-related disorders and both have documented consequences for the individual. However, the bravely overweight are treated as paragons, the underweight as pariahs.

I get it. There are many people - particularly on the internet - who have a hostile, virulent reaction to the overweight. These are the types of cartoonish villains who show up on Tumblr or one's Facebook feed, foaming at the mouth as they hurl juvenile insults at anyone who's weight starts with 3. I am neither condoning nor encouraging such behavior; I am, however, saying that the act of being overweight is something that should be dissuaded, and that such dissuasion is not akin to fat shaming. Basically, I can disagree with destructive behavior without being a dick about it.

The general acceptance of overweight or obese individuals is just further evidence of the pussification of our nation. *note to self, copyright "Pussification of Our Nation" for sale to inevitable reboot of Schoolhouse Rock* The individual is allowed to live his or her life as they please, but any criticism towards said lifestyle - regardless of legitimacy - is disregarded as malicious ignorance. This is the crux of the Anti-Fat Shaming Brigade; they seek to mold society to better themselves rather than mold themselves to better society. Their self-proclaimed bravery for standing up to the mean old gym bro harassing them whilst out and about is insulting to those actually displaying bravery to advance their respective social causes. A lesbian couple fighting for equal adoption rights are brave. An unarmed protester standing meters away from a heavily armed riot squad is brave. A fat guy who parks in handicap spaces is just an asshole.

Apology

Keeping this very short and sweet. I would just like to apologize to the five people who read this blog for the lack of consistent updates these past few months. I haven't been afflicted with writer's block so much as Big-Bang-Theory-writeritis, wherein all my ideas are absolute shit and I am incapable of saying anything genuinely thoughtful or humorous. Starting this Sunday, September 6, and until the end of the 2015 calendar year I will be posting an article a week. To compensate for my already busy schedule of bullshitting on YouTube for hours on end some of my posts may be a bit shorter than I would prefer. Also, I've been reading a lot of E. B. White recently and kind of want to try waxing poetic about the mundane (that's not a dig at White, the man is my favorite writer ever). 

Anyways, that's my plan going forward in a nutshell. To the five of you who have supported me, I thank you. Eventually I'll attempt to monetize your support via Etsy or some other cash grab technique. 

Excelsior!!!

Service

Sara: Hi, thank you for calling AT&T, the nation's number one provider of misery and sadness. My name is Sara, how may I help you lose just a little more faith in humanity today?

Me: Yes, I was calling about my AT&T U-verse service.

Sara: Sure thing! What seems to be the problem?

Me: Well I had scheduled internet installation on the eighth between 4:00 AM and 4:02 AM  but no one showed up. 

Sara: I am so sorry that happened to you, Mr. Coats!

Me: I didn't give you my name. 

Sara: Bitch, what you say?

Me: Apologies, continue.

Sara: I'm looking up your information right now and... yes, it appears we did show up to install our U-verse service - voted number one in infant mortality for the past five years - at 4:00 PM.

Me: My appointment was scheduled for 4:00 AM because I was told that was the only time y'all had available for the month of July.

Sara: Oh no, Mr. Coats! Who would install internet at such an ungodly hour? We gave you the 4:00 AM option to test your resolve. You failed.

Me: I see.

Sara: Before we re-schedule your next appointment we will be sending you a box filled with bees as punishment for your cowardice.

Me: You really don't have to.

Sara: Wasps. Now a box filled with wasps.

Me: I deserve this.

Sara: Mr. Coats, my records are showing that your current TV package is limited to only 800 channels. Would you like me to tell you about our Ultra Turbo TV Package Platinum Edition: The Awakening? 

Me: Can you not?

Sara: Excellent choice, sir! Ultra Turbo TV Package Platinum Edition: The Awakening provides the ultimate home entertainment experience for fat, useless, unimaginative pieces of shit such as yourself, sir.

Me: I've been losing some weight.

Sara: 15,000 channels, video recording, full HD programming, half SD programming, moderate STD programming, the entirety of ABC broadcasting in the early 90s translated from English to Mandarin and back to English, and more buttons on your remote control than you would ever know what to do with, you simple asshole. And with AT&T U-verse - God's chosen method of watching His own creations - you know that you are getting the best bang for your buck.

Me: Nah, I'd rather not upgrade. Don't watch much TV outside of Golden Girls reruns. 

Sara: And... we've successfully signed you up for our Ultra Turbo TV Package Platinum Edition: The Awakening, Mr. Coats! As a courtesy to you and your weak bloodline we have retroactively charged you for six months of service. 

Me: Just eyeballing it here but that doesn't seem right.

Sara: Unfortunately it appears you haven't made a TV service payment for the past six months, so we will be charging you more in late fees than you feel is reasonable but not enough for you to actually dispute.

Me: This is my life now.

Sara: Alright Mr. Coats, is there any other way we can bleed your soul this afternoon?

Me: You have done more than enough.

Sara: Mr. Coats if you would be so kind as to stay on the line and answer a brief survey on the service you received today. 

Me: Is that barking in the background? 

Sara: Yes, sir! If we find your answers to our brief survey unsatisfactory we will murder this dog! His name is Sgt. Bonkers. 

Sgt. Bonkers: Woof!

Sara: Thank you for calling AT&T - the nation's leader in accidental death via auto-erotic asphyxiation - and have a good day.

Me: Thanks...?

Sara: Bitch.

Equal

Freedom is the romantically vague ideal upon which our great nation was built. Cheap ethnic labor too, but mainly freedom. However, there is a large segment of our population that has been repeatedly denied a seat at the table of liberty (where, I imagine, one would eat nothing but Freedom Fries doused in American Cheese). These people are not criminals. They are not terrorists. They are not anarchists, deviants, or Kardashians. These people are gay.

Like, super gay. Gay gay. So gay, in fact, that some of them want to be able to marry another gay person. That's double the gay!

This poses a problem for certain people. Mike Huckabee, Mitch McConnell, an inappropriately chatty woman standing in line behind me at Albertson's, staunch racists looking for more things to hate, Westboro Baptist Church. The creme de la creme of society. According to these paragons of virtue one is to believe that the legalization of same sex marriage would lead to the disintegration of America's moral fibers. The same fibers that allow for unarmed black men to be shot to death and multi-billion dollar corporations to pay no taxes, mind you. These people are also quick to claim that disagreeing with their intolerance is a form of intolerance itself. Intolerance judo.

That's not how intolerance works. You can't just I-know-you-are-but-what-am-I yourself out of an argument. If my stance is that your views on same sex marriage are both antiquated and oppressive, then my stance serves as a rebuttal of your worldview and is not a form of intolerance itself. In more blunt terms, if one believes there is something wrong with two people of the same sex getting married, then there is something wrong with said individual.

Another argument that doesn't pass the sniff test is the notion of gay marriage altering straight marriage. Do you know what has happened to heterosexual married couples in the 37 states that have already legalized same sex marriage? Fucking nothing! Surprise! What was supposed to happen when gay people started getting married? Glitter sales go through the roof, making it impossible to properly decorate for a tacky business meet-and-greet? Do some truly wish to deny same sex marriage for the express purpose of keeping the price of glitter reasonable? Isn't there enough glitter in the world for us all to be fabulous?  

An equally baffling off shoot of this line of thinking is faux-protective parents, hands on hips and brows furrowed, who are unsure of what to tell their ever inquisitive children when asked why Bill and Tom are holding hands. Here's what you can tell your crayon-eating kid: literally anything. You're confused on what to tell a child about gay marriage? These little shits are a few years removed from jingling keys being a legitimate magic trick. Elementary-aged children don't bat an eye when you tell them a fat immortal white guy stationed in the middle of the Artic is both monitoring their behavior and making Playstation 4s year round. How hard would it be to say "Bill and Tom love each other?"   

I do not pretend to know nor care of any legal voodoo that correctly justifies a state's right to ban gay marriage. I am not arguing from the point of view of a lawyer but the point of view of a human, and my human senses are screaming bullshit. 

Currently there are 19 countries which allow same-sex marriage, one of those countries being South Africa. Let that sink in for a bit. A country that is only a temporal stone throw away from apartheid collectively decided that two women in love deserve the same rights and dignity as a man and woman in love. South Africa, a country who's institutional racism made 1960s Alabama blush, has the wherewithal to understand that there is nothing inherently abhorrent about same sex marriage. For whatever reason we have yet to reach such a state of enlightenment. America is losing the moral arms race to fucking South Africa.  

The silver lining to all this nonsense is that the gay moon is high and the tides are changing. As I put pen to paper there are multiple cases across the country that will decide the fates of gay men and gay women for years to come. More states are legalizing gay marriage each year, public opinion is shifting from cautious indifference to outright support of equal rights, politicians are coming to a consensus that all citizens are entitled to the quiet comfort of sharing a name and a bed with the one they love, and glitter sales are at an all time high. In the end, as it usually does, love will win out. If we are to consider America a beacon of justice and enemy to the wicked, it must win out.

Sleepless

Nathan looked outside the cafe window to see the rain hit the pavement softly, regretfully. Was this god's way of laughing at him, or laughing with him?

It had been six years since he had last seen Zoe. A few more tattoos, a Pinterest-approved mohawk, a cut above her lip from a bar fight. But that smile, often used to buy her time for a playful riposte to whatever moderately clever nonsense had just come out of Nathan's mouth, that smile hadn't changed. Was there a time when I knew Zoe but didn't love her, Nathan asked himself. He knew the answer.

"So? What's your answer?" asked Zoe. "We down for hiking next week?" Six years in the urban shithole that is Detroit had done nothing to quell Zoe's love for the outdoors.

"I'm down for whatever, lady. You know that." The two shared a small laugh, then silence. He gently grabbed her hand. "Zoe, I.. I've missed you. I've missed you more than I can really put into words. And now that you're here, you're back, I feel that we can try again. Like we can start over."

Right before Zoe started choking to death on her sandwich she nodded in agreement with Nathan. She, too, had felt her return to Seattle was a chance for her to start her life over. While she did not love Nathan as much as he loved her, Zoe could see herself dating him again. At least, she could have. Before she started choking. To death. On a sandwich.

Her face turned from red to purple to blue, like a grotesque parody of the blueberry scene from Willy Wonka. She grabbed her neck as she fell to the ground and began to claw at her throat and face. Shortly after the capillaries in her eyes burst she began bleeding from her nose.

"Zoe! Zoe! Someone help, please!" Never in his life had Nathan felt more powerless. Despite each heave and squeeze and pull he could not get Zoe to spit out the food lodged in her throat. She was going to die in his arms. The entire small cafe had flown into a very polite panic, with various customers calling 911 and offering disingenuous aid to Nathan and Zoe, each person frantically surveying the room as if to look for someone to blame.

At the table adjacent to Zoe and Nathan's was an older woman. She had come alone, a light book about the decline of silent pictures in the 1920s resting unopened by her coffee. Much like her fellow patrons the old woman's eyes were transfixed on the scene unfolding right beside her, a woman's life dashed for the most asinine of reasons in front of a man with much mourning ahead of him. In spite of absorbing the entirety of this tragedy the woman had not put down her menu. She flagged a nearby waitress.

"Excuse me miss," said the woman, only now turning her head away from the grief stricken Nathan. "I'll have what she's having."

   

Mortify

Children are a callous lot by nature, lacking empathy and tact. Whenever someone espouses the inherent goodness of children I simply point them to the nearest fast food play pen. On the surface one would see kids being kids, as it were; movement and laughter and scrapped knees and happiness. Upon further inspection, however, one will see children for what they really are: fucking animals.

One child is being excluded from a game of Hide and Seek because the others think he smells (he totally does but that's beside the point). Another child is being pelted with recently purchased kids meal toys. Yet another child is being stabbed to death with sharpened crayons. And finally, turn your attention to the ball pit. Do you see the overweight kid wearing eight too many wrist bracelets and a stupid shark tooth necklace struggling to breathe and crying like a little bitch because he's stuck in the ball pit and no one will help him?

I was that kid.

In fifth grade I was a fat, awkward caterpillar waiting to blossom into a fat, awkward butterfly. I was ignorant of my own impotence, and looking back on my youth I find this ignorance comforting.

Many moons ago during an English lesson we partook in a class reading assignment. Instead of having children read clockwise around the room my teacher (his surname escapes me so I shall refer to him as Mr. Nixon) utilized a "popcorn-kernel" technique. One would finish reading a passage, select a child at random, said child would say popcorn if they accepted the challenge to read or kernel if they refused. Despite having two options we were forbidden to say kernel.

Wisely, I questioned the purpose of saying popcorn when accepting one's call to read next, as we were not allowed to decline said proposition. Dickly, Mr. Nixon replied "because that's what my lesson plan calls for and I'm too much of a scared coward of a bitch to alter it in any way and I fart in crowded elevators before getting off and tip 5% at restaurants and I believe the Holocaust was exaggerated." Paraphrasing, of course.

Before I had a firm grasp of modern American vulgarity I knew this man was a raging asshole. Mr. Nixon used air quotes, had an unearned smugness to his demeanor, and consistently made use of shitty puns. The worst I can recall was, in response to the complaints from one of my peers, he said "would you like some cheese with your whine?" FUCK YOU, with your early 90s sitcom dad humor, you fucking twat.

As an aside, can people please stop using apostrophes when they write 90s, or any other decade for that matter? Misappropriated apostrophes are an efficient way to let the world know you are a dumbass.

For this particular class reading Mr. Nixon threw in a new wrinkle: say popcorn, then one's name, then start reading. The first few students read their passages without incidence. A few stutters, confusion at seeing so many multi syllabic words in sequence, y'know, regular kid shit. Then it was the Cool Kid's turn.

Cool Kid was asked to read by one of my peers and in typical Cool Kid fashion he did so, but on his terms. Cool Kid terms. First, Cool Kid flipped each of his three collars to look extra cool (I don't know why but when I was in elementary school kids just wore a lot of shirts underneath more shirts). Then, Cool Kid took his gum out (Big League Chew like a fucking boss) and puts it back on the table instead of the trash, because you know Cool Kid is coming back for that shit. Finally, Cool Kid got on his skateboard and did a sick kickflip over Mr. Nixon's table. At this point everyone is cheering and singing the praises of Cool Kid, whilst the parents outside fight amongst themselves over whose daughter will marry Cool Kid when he is of age.

Before he starts reading, Cool Kid slightly turns down his cool to obey Mr. Nixon's rule of saying popcorn then our name before reading. However, in typical Cool Kid fashion, he says his name then popcorn instead of vice versa. This creates the illusion that his full name is Cool Kid Popcorn. To 10-year-olds this was fucking comedy gold. Everyone, including Mr. Nixon, starts laughing. To soak in the moment Cool Kid puts on his sunglasses, lowers them, then winks at a girl sitting across from him. She blushes and pledges her virginity to him.

Seeing how much joy and laughter filled the classroom following Cool Kid's joke, I thought it would be a good idea to repeat his exact joke. Same delivery, same punchline, same everything. Only 30 seconds after he said it, too. My 10-year-old brain had yet to learn that lightning doesn't strike the same place twice.

Dead fucking silence. No one even smiles or offers polite, conciliatory laughter. One of the children literally says "Uh, not funny dude." Mr. Nixon looks at me, shakes his smug possibly-used-to-be-a-date-rapist-like-at-least-once-because-c'mon-look-at-the-way-I-part-my-hair-classic-reformed-date-rapist-hair-part head and tells me to "just read the paragraph. No jokes please."

Compounding the uncomfortability of the situation was the fact that I still had to fucking read my paragraph. The contents of my assigned reading passage have eluded me to this day, as I willed myself unconscious prior to reading. When I came to another child was reading, and my joke faux pas had passed from moment to memory.

"But Dominic," you say, "why focus on such a seemingly innocuous memory from your childhood? We all make jokes that fall flat from time to time. No big deal. Laugh it off, and move on."

Really, you are right; having a joke that bombs, in the grand scheme of things, is not all that important. But, if you know only one thing about me know that I am impressively neurotic. For all intents and purposes I am Sisyphus and that singular moment is my boulder. Now go sit in the corner and think about what you just said.