It wasn’t until I beheld him walking away down the Burke-Gilman Trail in his green jacket, until I felt the great charging train of my life switched onto the rails of a wrong parallel reality, that the truth settled itself on my shoulders.
But I will often retrace the roads and words I’ve taken and exhale, exultant.
Anyone who tells me that The Hunger Games series is just another YA sci-fi romp will quickly find themselves on the receiving end of a literary argument so blistering they’ll think they were just stung by a swarm of tracker jackers.
I have named our pop-up restaurant Le Cabine. This restaurant has everything: grammatical inaccuracy, two cats hanging around at all times, and the world’s first ever Michelin Moon.
And tonight on the runway, category is: pandemic eleganza.
Whoever said money can’t buy happiness clearly never bought a cozy cerulean sweater.
sometimes I’m sorry I was not
all green and yellow lights.
Here’s the thing: I don’t know what a goatsphynx is, but I’m starting to believe it may not be as scary as it sounds.
David: Ok. But I’ll have you know that picking out a sweater for this event was literally the hardest choice of my life, and I think that the results speak for themselves.
I think that there are plenty of things within the gay community that deserve to be challenged and criticized; I just wish that my precious protagonists didn’t conflate these flaws with effeminacy.
I will have you know that you all used to be one of my favorite animals.
Rosalía manages to marry the coolness of a modern pop auteur with the sublime terror of a Dalí painting.
I’m writing about the extraordinary.
It’s incredible how quickly life can pivot from divine comedy to Nihilistic terror.
I did not come out all at once.
Let me be clear: you do not have to do anything.
I’m not asking rhetorically. How do you stare down the barrel of the next five years of your life, ten years of your life, rest of your life and not flinch?
“Seeing Caribbean fruits on European starches makes me uncomfortable” prompts the listener toward empathy while “You are a traitor to pizza!” will only cause them to clam up.
Her writing was an act of taking a love that for centuries had been pushed to the margins and defiantly sticking it on the center of the page.
This February, the Alaskan Way Viaduct will be disassembled. Trucks and cranes will shake loose the concrete foundations before an earthquake has the pleasure, and I’m beginning to realize that I will never be able to leave Seattle the way I came.
Live from the sugar-buzzed frontal lobe of Gabe Gunnink, welcome to the twenty-ninth annual Golden Gabe Awards! And now, your hosts for the evening, ladies and gentlemen, Trixie Mattel and Katya Zamolodchikova!
I am a Slytherin. My Patronus is a cat. The reality sunk in like basilisk fangs: I am Millicent Bulstrode.
Now, if you’ll sit over here, I’m just going to take your anxiety. You’re going to feel some tightness. That’s normal. Okay?
Okay.
So, please tune in to the Marblelympics because it is the low stakes competition you need in your life, because it is a dazzling little world, and because I really need people I can talk about this with, you guys!
So, in order to commemorate these tenth Gay Games, I have decided to pen my very own over-the-top, saccharinely sincere Pindaric ode. Let’s hope it’s not, well, terrible.
Now that my grandma has died, though, I feel almost embarrassed when people comfort me. I find myself dodging and deflecting each earnest, brow-furrowed condolence with chipper sound bytes: “It was a mercy at this point.” “It was a long time coming.” “I actually had a great time with my family. It was so fun to see my cousins from out of town!” I refuse to play into the cliché.
Never before in my life have I been physically stopped in my tracks by the scent of flowers. Never until I moved to Seattle.
I want the noble purpose of an educator without having to put in the hours. I want to retain a teacher’s saintly glow without having to fight for the daily miracles.
Which is why it is so wonderful to see Adam Rippon glorified for his femininity. And which is why it’s so wonderful to see that he does not carry the queer Olympic torch alone.
My heart thunders as I pass the unglittering sign staking out the bucking bronco state: WELCOME TO WYOMING – FOREVER WEST. Here, I think, lies a land I’ve never traveled.
