I am two days late because I have a job, OK? I have shit to do that actually pays. I don’t just sit around all day and dream up fresh ideas for the blog. Maybe if you heathens paid me for this, I would be able to rate it higher on my list of priorities. But, no, you sons of capitalistic bitches just want the pleasures of my writing for free. No comments also. Ugh.
So I was sitting around doing nothing and dreaming up fresh ideas for the blog the other day, and I realised that no one really talks about the closet itself, do they? Everyone asks about your coming out story, but never about the going in story, do they (they also ask about your pulling out stories, but those are OK. They’re harmless)? They never talk about what the closet is all about, do they?
Now, the things that happen when you work with homosexuals (did I mention my job is at an NGO that works with sexual minorities and sex workers? No? How else was I supposed to get over the guilt of abandoning little poor children?) is that you end up thinking about this shit a lot more than you did before, which, for me, is an awful lot. In case you don’t know already, you should know that I am something of an activist. And by that I mean that I rant. A lot. All the time.
As can be expected of harmless Independence Day Wednesday evenings, I could be found last week, swiping away my time on Tinder, looking for hot pieces of smart cakes that I could flirt with and then ghost when they ask to meet. On my excapade (I won’t make a sexcapade joke because I am better than that, you wastes of comedy), I ran into a curly haired cutie who is working on some gay shit, and we struck up a conversation. And that got me thinking about closets, a topic that I generally avoid because, like all pretentious gays, I am quick to pipe up about how “closets are claustrophobic, you know” and feel smug about my word game thereafter. I also like to put on an accent when I say that.
So, thinking about closets, I got to realising that I didn’t even know I was in the closet until I found out about it (as a claustrophobe, that is not something you would expect), and proceeded to sit in Rodin pose going all “hmm. I wonder how that makes me feel”. Nothing. It made me feel nothing.
That is not to say that this issue isn’t important. One of the things that you learn when you are an activist (will never not shove that around) is that your personal feelings don’t matter in the face of a larger issue, and dammit, this is a larger issue. Why do we not talk about the closet itself? Do you know what the closet feels like? It’s fucking suffocating!
…
No, but it is! It’s moment after moment of feeling like you want to take the nearest sharp object and use it to siphon off your soul from within your body (I did biology in college this is correct I know it) and throw it away, and replace it with a soul that isn’t so… yergakh (refer to my acknowledgement of my skills as a writer in my earlier post).
But, and this is where I talk to my fellow faggots, do you remember that period before you were shoved headfirst into the closet? Like, no one told you that there was a closet, and then suddenly you were in it. The walls were just there; the freedom to be yourself was just gone; and the smell of cum was just everywhere.
Why don’t we talk about the closet itself? Where does it come from? Why does it exist? What does it comprise? Yo, ask me when I was pushed into the closet, not when I came out of it, because I pushed myself out of the closet by clutching onto whatever straws I could find, but you fuckers took away all my agency and pushed me into the closet. Let’s talk more about the heteronormative world being assholes to the queers and literal-fucking-ly throwing them into confinement. Let’s talk more about heteronormativity stealing our freedom as opposed to going all “OH my god, did you hear their coming out story? They are so brave!” in some weird (New York rich white chic) accent. Um, actually, you people are the reason I had to make this effort in the first place. Let’s talk about that, hmm?
Now, y’all know this is one of the funniest places on the interwebs, but sometimes you have to get your shit together and really think about things. I am not funny enough to inject comedy into everything, and I’m writing this post mostly in the middle of a drinking binge with my friends in Hyderabad (remember how I said May was largely the best month so far? It was because of the aforementioned friends). As anyone who has had the opportunity to spend any amount of time with my fabulous ass, you will know that alcohol brings out my inner ranter. Yes, I have an inner ranter. If you thought I ranted sober, muahaha motherfucker.
I remember wanting to write more, but since the beginning of this post, I’ve had a bunch of Old Monk (linking this for those sad souls that don’t have hangover memories from this beauty; again, judge the Wikipedia linkage in your own blog), and have rather lost my train of thought. So this is, like, the end of the post.
But, before I leave, I promised a cutie I’d give her a mention. She’s science and shit, so she’s super smart, but she’s also a baby, so she’s adorbs. Oh, and we talked about death and my attempted suicide and I convinced her that killing yourself is OK (that may be a stretch. Or not. You’ll never know). The reason she needs a mention is that when I was “BUSY” with work, she reminded me that she was waiting for a post. She’s the best. Give her love and a follow, but only if she comments. Cheers.
