Emily Broussard, via YouTube

When I moved to New York at 28 I’d been out of the closet for four entire years, but hadn’t even begun to find my footing. I’d never even had sex with a man, not really. I said it was because I was a charmingly unlucky disaster who couldn’t get a date, but it was really because I was afraid. I’d been raised in religion in a homophobic family, bullied my entire childhood, traumatized by the death of my gay best friend Michael, who graciously let me live vicariously through him while I toiled at the unconvincing song-and-dance of the…


Yesterday was the 7th Mother’s Day since my mom iced me for liking dicks more than Jesus and for some reason it was the first one that got me in my feelings. Usually I just make jokes or thank all my surrogate mothers but yesterday I was like “STAHP TWEETING PICS OF YOUR NICE MOOOMMSuh!” while sobbing so hard it made farts come out IDK why the brain’s creative process is always a mystery! Anyway my point is I ate a lot of things yesterday and I would like to review them. #reviews

Starbucks Ham n Cheese Croissant: Oh wow…


Woolsey Fire near Point Dume, Malibu. Photo via @csfafire on Instagram; www.firestormhdvideos.com

When I lived in Los Angeles, I was not well. Traumatized, but didn’t know it, mentally ill, but didn’t know it, on a slow-motion dive into ruin, but didn’t know it. I cried a lot, and was still a child, really, so I did a lot of hiding — which is to say, this being Los Angeles, driving. I’d drive up Mulholland and park at one of the overlooks (you could still do that back then), or up the Angeles Crest Highway until I got to where the stars reappeared. Or, on the worst days, out to Malibu. I’d sit…


“In life, I’ve loved and been loved. Now I’ve had enough. I’m taking a rest.”

I am killing time, walking through the international terminal, when it hits. I go to a window, watch the jets take off and land over the looping freeway interchanges, and sob in a cold panic. I call my best friend, and her voice has that tone it had three years before when I called to say I was quitting life: a tone of calm concern covering terror; leery, cautious, approaching slowly so as not to spook. She asks why I’m panicking and I tell her I don’t know, but I do: I am afraid to be alive — actually alive…


Oy.

Well, I had a good run (lol no I didn’t my entire life has been a nightmare but anyway) but I am now a cadaver in a coffin with too much foundation and a bad suit from the Merona section of Target and my lips visibly sewn shut like Madonna’s mom in that one video. I’m typing this from my grave because who knew, the silver lining of the afterlife (apart from being dead) is that there’s wifi.

I am a survivor. I’ve survived abuse, poverty, mental illness, two recessions, five lay-offs, swine flu, Avril Lavigne, Sarah Palin, the 2016…


Hobbies include captioning my nephew’s photos

It’s a drab Friday in March, the precise sort of damp, gray bullshit characteristic of the intermission between Midwestern winter and spring, when the text finally arrives. “Heeeey Uncle,” it says, followed by a photo of my little brother Bill in a hospital room holding his newborn son, swaddled up like a burrito. A caption arrives: “Am I doing this right? Idk!” “Support that fontanelle bruh,” I reply, along with a dozen 100% emojis.

There’s no element of surprise here. I’ve known this baby was coming for six months and have been gay-shrieking about it on social media ever since…


Listen, I have spent my entire life worshipping the Oscars but this year I just don’t care. At all. I think it’s probably related to the inescapable and crushing malaise that has us all collectively praying for death, which incidentally will be the overarching theme of whatever “I ❤️ the Trump Years!” clip show VH1 beams directly into our skulls in 2030. Zany Gen Z improv comedians will be like “What’s so funny about the Trump Years is all the suicides! Everyone thought millennial death humor was just social commentary but no like my ENTIRE family over the age of…


Much like how Halloween is mostly for children and hot people, Christmas is mostly for children and people in love. Some of us are part of families that like get along and like each other or something (which LOLOLOL Karen that is a myth like the moon landing, I see you), but the rest of us are just muddling through, and for a lot of us — because of a break-up, unaccepting family, financial hardship, any number of reasons — that means flying solo. If you’re one of them, this essay is for you.

In my adult life, I’ve spent…


It is November 8 about 11:00pm and I am having a panic attack.

My roommate had come home from the election party I’d left, and the thought of even being looked at by another human being — even a like-minded one — made my stomach lurch. I couldn’t place the feeling then, but I can now: humiliating. It felt humiliating.

I needed to walk.

So I’m walking, fast, starting to sweat as my feet stomp the pavement. Maybe I can crush reality under my shoes. I’m scanning every block for the “alt-right” types that have been harassing me on Twitter…


A Survival Guide for Trump’s America

Hoo boy, this shit’s crazy, word?! You know in When Harry Met Sally where Harry’s all “Boy the holidays amirite!” but Sally has plunged into an inescapable nihilism and so she’s just all “A lot of suicides”?

Your Gay Uncle John

Writer/joker/thinker/feeler/homosexualer/feminister/lover/fighter/survivor (whut). https://yourgayunclejohn.com/

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