I don't want to be known for my writing or clothes.
I want to be known for my anger.
Writing just seems to be the form where examples are the simplest and situations the realest.
My frustration is the fuel which my characters face and just limiting the value of my writing to good prose is Kubrick cutting the end of A Clockwork Orange to make a shallow movie about violence.
My work is my anger and everyone's anger at ignorance at those who will limit anyone to the background.
The further work is not about love, love is the aid to get us through society which we've created, born into and have to struggle with every day.
And love is the fuel, the fuel to the anger which I have to bear for being queer and deviant.
And I am not a love story. I am not something to cry over. I am something which should make you realize if you are at a privileged position that you should make a change, if you are discriminated, that you are not alone, that we should all have this fuel and should never just be limited to love.
Because our anger is valid.
We became our anger, so that the love will not only nourish us now, but later when all is done and we are no longer deviant to a society who hates itself.
Jamie. Gay. Genderfluid. Polyamorous.
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He’s much taller than me and surely than Jamie and he fidgets and he smiles at me lightly, as I walk towards our lockers and he holds a flower. Do they even do that? And I recall how me and Jamie were handed a rose each by some random passerby once, on Valentine’s day as well and we swore that we’d be each other’s valentine always, well, now we won’t. He’s rather striking as well. Well-built and seems to be something like some eye candy Jamie would jerk off to. I’ve been paired up with him in chemistry once and he had randomly asked me what I listened to years ago and said he was going to buy vinyl and I just smiled it off.
Apparently he switched teams.
“Um, where’s Jamie?” I shrug and I wonder myself, as we both didn’t phone each other to meet up and soon enough, we see the talk himself run up and he’s in a suit, a smaller scarf tied around and he stops near the locker, eyes scanning the bloke and me. He smiles wider as he looks at him and tries to stash the guilt in his eyes from me.
BOTH ME AND ALISON HAVE PASTEL PINK
COORDINATED HAIR AGAIN?
white vegans be like “honey is unethical because the bees...
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