Brigs laughs and pulls the container of crow snack out of my hand, dumping it out for the birds. “Yes, you are. I know you’re gay as a cup of pineapple bits, so yeah, you are. Come on; we gotta get dressed for the club.” I stare up at him, not really sure I could get my legs to work if I did want to get up. First, why does being gay mean I have to go clubbing? No, first, what is gay about a cup of pineapples? He’s so strange sometimes.

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