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I’ve always been the kind of gay that announces itself and asks for a wide berth. Flamboyant, as Grammy says.
Being fat is hard enough without adding gay guy to the equation. The only gay guys anyone fawns over online are ripped with like twelve-pack abs or whatever. I know it’s plenty difficult for other people too, but when you’re straight and big, everyone is fine with you as long as you can be the person who lifts heavy stuff or fixes things or protects people. But when you’re gay, if you want to be the object of anyone’s desire, you better have washboard abs and a phone full of thirst traps. So in a very small way, I feel for Kyle, but mostly being near him hurts.
Cheeseburgers and Dolly Parton and the kind of love that feels lived in and complicated.
“It’s okay. We can’t all wield the power of pessimism. It’s a gift and a burden. Besides, what’s done is done, and who knows? This whole experience might not be the worst thing to ever happen to me. Stay tuned.”
“If we’re going to have our Brewer Twins Go to a Gay Bar premiere, we’re going to look fabulous. We have to make a statement.” “And the statement can’t just be ‘Look at me. I own clothing’?” she asks hesitantly. “Don’t ruin this for me,” I warn.
“Nothing says high school lesbians in love like wearing each other’s combat boots.”
Hannah always looks like the kind of girl who could kick your ass, but tonight she looks like the kind of girl you’d be begging to kick your ass.
No matter how hard I try—and I’ve tried plenty—it’s everywhere. The way I walk. The way I talk. I didn’t wake up and pray to be a walking gay billboard.” Sometimes falling more on the femme side of the spectrum sends me into a massive thinky, feelsy spiral. I don’t hate those pieces of myself, even if they sometimes scare me. Those attributes are part of me, but it’s just a small sliver of who I am. And yet for so many people, it’s all they see. It’s the whole package. Fat. Femme. Judgments made. Case closed.
The first thing my brain wants to notice is how I’m fat and he is not, which is extremely apparent in our matching outfits, but I force myself to look past that.
“You don’t wield glitter. Glitter wields you.”
And slowly my brain forgets about the extreme discomfort I felt at the sound of someone calling me hot.
“That thing people say about high school being the best years of your life? It’s a lie.” “I’d hoped that was the case.”
I could totally take over the family business if I wanted to, but yeah, sorry, my heart’s not in the construction biz. This hair is too good for a hard hat.
“You’re a badass. You’re perfect. You’re a work of art. You’re fierce. You’re probably Mom’s favorite. I’m a little bit drunk. And there’s oregano in your teeth.”
“I love you with my whole heart and my very big brain and every one of my two hundred and six bones.”
I’m in drag. Because drag is more than makeup and gowns and bodysuits and tucking and sequins and wigs. Drag is about what you exude. Drag is a choice.
Wow, I didn’t know I had a type, but apparently I do, and the category is: hot lumberjack.
She peeks her head back up, like a very cute turtle, and blows Hannah a kiss.
“The person who decides they want to be by my side has to do it with their head held high. I’m done being with people who are embarrassed by me or ashamed of me. I’m too good to keep secret.”
“Not everything has to be sarcastic or edgy. It’s okay to be vulnerable and sincere.”
“When the world isn’t selling what you’re looking to buy, you just have to take it upon yourself to cut your own pattern.”
Oh. My. God. I, Waylon Brewer, am going to be someone’s boyfriend. I solemnly swear to be the best arm candy his arm or any arm has ever seen.
