Everybody has a closet they keep closed.

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Diary: I Feel Pretty

Password: iamloved

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Favorite lines?

I can’t think my thoughts when Vista damns creativity with 11 point Calibri, day over night over double spaced monotony.

In journalism, paragraphs are key. The holy grail of journalistic success, all you need are paragraphs. One or two sentences to express a statement of fact. Kyle Leerie, 23, died when his car crashed into a tree. He was pronounced dead at the scene. Not, the tree was Oak and Kyle’s accident woke up a family of blue jays. They flew away on impact.

For some reason, I had myself convinced that blue jay was one word. Last night, when I dreamed, it was like a premiere screening of my subconscious. I see the previews every waking hour. When I am alive in the day I fear snakes and dirty shoes and food poisoning. I fear these things in the back of my mind. I think Man the Staples guy is cute. But I don’t say cute out loud, I barely let my thoughts think it. Instead I think, no he is attractive. He smiles well. Like there is happiness to gum-tooth-grin at once in a while, though maybe it’s only in the Staples on Lancaster Ave and only when he’s around.

At night I have break through bleeding of the mind. My dreams are everything I think about quietly, pushed way into the back row so no one – let alone I – notice and call on them for answers. When I dream, my brain flips around. Back of my mind is the front and the front the back. Now all those fears and quiet thoughts are here. LOOK AT ME LOOK AT ME.

I wake up to the incessant beeping of a truck in reverse. I hate that noise. Reminding, reminding the world that the truck is moving backwards, backwards in space and I wish backwards in time for then it would not be outside my window beeping through my pillow and into my head.

There was a girl here that sat in trees – in jeans and sticky fingers I imagine – to growl at passerby. She graduated and came out to her parents as a Dragon. My customs person tells us this story because it is midnight and we are outside on the grass. The kids look at me expectantly, as if I will suddenly confess, I daresay I am Eeyore. No, no don’t look at me like that. If she was a Dragon, I can be Eeyore. I should expect this, having confessed to an affliction for space cowboys and their underhand doings in Firefly. That is, I am SciFi. The kryptonite of popularity, scifiers die enmeshed in capes and made up languages (DAMN TOLKIEN).

I guess what I am trying to say is that if you’re a Dragon, come out of the closet. Her parents were probably so set that she was coming out as gay that Dragon was something of a delightful sidestep. But then, they wondered next, can dragons be homosexual? Perhaps there are two closets.

Anticipating this line of curiosity, Dragon does not mention that in every dorm hall bathroom a small but cutely decorated bag sits on the top shelf. Condoms, printed boldly on the front. She sneaks one from behind the polka dots when she thinks no one is looking and nestles it inside a lesser worn sock. The mysterious school appointed condom fairy checks the bag and refills it because that is what they tell her to do and what they will continue to mark as her task until the government disallows it or religious parents get a whiff.

Until then, the condom fairy continues on to the next dorm bathroom.