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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YES, I KNOW THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A SHORT STORY, BUT GUESS WHAT
I SHIP THEM :D
Jack White is more than a game and sometimes I feel like I am the dice they both roll and both have different tastes and neither of them are licorice yet they are the sweets in the aisle which seems to have to many to choose from. And I’ve watched him as we both get our hair trimmed and see how his curls fall and I know that mine will grow the same way it did, my dye takes longer and it takes a while for his to fall and mine to be renewed and I feel like our age is switched, the tired look in his eyes make him more ready to gamble while my age just wants a roof, yet we still walk out, both newly cut and he can’t help but look at me.
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