I am a proud weirdo. I’ve given up all semblance of normality ages ago. Embracing, instead, the most exuberant displays of my strangeness. Still, sometimes, a thought creeps up on me like a surprise party. I might be walking down Michigan Avenue, watching the tourists pass by, and I will find myself almost in awe of the simplicity of their existence. I mean these people – these squares, these muggles, these buffers, these rubes – do they ever look in the mirror and wonder, like I do, if today will be the day that my toe scratches up that line, dooming me in a blazing hate crime perpetrated by a dude-bro in a popped polo?
I think there is something particular to being queer, of existing in the bizarro side of society, that lends itself to a hyper and heightened sense of jealousy.
They have it so easy. The bastards.
Of course, I know that this is not entirely true. I’m sure they have their own idiosyncratic hardships, and the trope of “the grass is always greener” is by no means limited to the queerful. Still, I think there is something particular to being queer, of existing in the bizarro side of society, that lends itself to a hyper and heightened sense of jealousy. I think it’s fundamental to the experience of being an outcast, a persona non grata. It’s common, or at least I tell myself that it is, that, for those casted upon the margins of society, we each have moments where we contemplate ourselves against that thick, fun-house mirror of normality. Peering in, with our hands on our hips, we stand wondering how we would look, wear our hair, dress, speak, or conduct our boring lives if we could, for a moment, step through that looking glass into the ostensible State of normality.
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