I wrote this in May of this year — it is even more relevant now. I can’t cope with this shit.
Fall 1975: Suicide Failure
I couldn’t even kill myself right.
During a summer spent in a fantasy world called theatre camp, I freed the wild, wanton, and want-able boy I’d kept locked inside me. When it was time to return to the torture chamber reality of my small-town junior high school, I knew to survive it I’d have to lock away all the qualities I’d liberated: no more fabulous, shockingly bold homo behavior, no more sex, no more 1930s black and white film, gesticulatory smoking, no more endless cups of coffee all day long, doping and drinking at night, no more of the experimenting with who I could be that had made me celebrity-popular and scandalous in my summer theatre camp world. It was over, and the rigid roles a male was allowed to play were few in Walkersville, Maryland, where I was miscast in every one except target. Not…
View original post 2,540 more words