Been fanning the flames of my flamboyant faggotry since April 1990 when I strutted from the caverns of my mother's.... nevermind, I'm never touching one of those.
My childhood is exemplified by late-night espionage treks, sneaking through my sister's side of our bedroom maximized by youthful perspective, each step of mine garnering more taut gravity than the next, finally reaching the Holy Grail: her Barbie collection.
In the fourth grade, I drew my interpretations of those beautiful, diamond-infested drag queens that rained feathers and sequins upon one drought of an existence, the adults framing my tolerance as a ****-stained abomination.
Now people ponder why I'm so overt with my gaydom.
Why argue with your nostalgia-hemmed family friend over the cultural significance of the Barbra Streisand Album, or gladly sit through marathons of 1980s ****** camp classics?
It's the kid in me. Something lost for an era in a washing tub of middle school torture tactics, heavy breathing over hiding something so natural.
And a few years of that are **** stifling enough for this gigantic ******.