The worst way to make friends

Carnage is a sweet thing to watch. It’s something you can bond over, maybe with a beer and greasy pub food. Watching two men fight is primal and hideous but it can make you friends, simply for the fact that you might be rooting for the same guy to bleed. I was spending my Saturday night doing just that with my friend Matt at Ryerson’s pub. We had just ordered and were settling down to watch a UFC Fight Night. Tito Ortiz vs. Forest Griffin – I had been anticipating this fight for a week. I just wanted to see Griffin lose and run away like a little girl. I had money on this fight.

During one of the welterweight divisions, my friend Rachel called me from her room on U of T’s campus. I didn’t want to pick up the phone because the fight was so rough, so enticing, but I decided to make the sacrifice. I walked outside so I could hear her.
“Do you remember Cayley Chapman, Joi Edgar and Emma Ransom? From high school?” she asked. Certainly I remembered them; we had only graduated a year and a half ago. They were fine girls, I guess, but I didn’t have much communication with them. Rachel knew them much better.
“Sure I do. What about them?”
“They’re dead.”
Rachel went on to explain that the three girls were driving to Calgary from Lethbridge on a weekend trip when their car spun out of control and drove over the median into oncoming traffic. They hit another car straight-on. There was a woman and her baby in the other car. Everyone was found dead on the scene except for the baby, saved by the car seat.

I explained to Matt that I had to leave, paid my bill and rushed over to Rachel’s. We sat in her dark residence room, browsing Facebook until 3 a.m. as the details of the accident slowly leaked via a shallow social networking website. “RIP Cayley, Joilinn, Emma” was the Facebook status theme du jour, and it seemed that everyone we went to high school with knew. Rachel was getting messages left, right and centre. “Rachel, did you hear?” “Oh my god, it’s so awful.” “I’m shocked. I’m just shocked, I can’t even believe it.” For this brief speck in time, everyone was friends and we were all in high school and we were all holding hands, no matter how far we were. I made a few phone calls to Calgary and Victoria, where I knew some of my friends were. They knew the girls, they’d be upset.
“I’m fine, I’ve had my cry,” said Molly. “I can’t believe it. But, thanks for calling, Scaachi, that was nice.”

When you realize someone that you didn’t know well is dead, there are a few choice things that happen: you think of how your friends would react if it were you, you think how you’d react if it were your friends, and you consider every regret you’ve held with you your entire life. After all, I feel like I just saw these girls in Mentorship class, annoying the hell out of me because they were pretty and popular and I couldn’t find a real reason to dislike any of them.

Over the weekend, more information was released. Finally, names and pictures of the girls came out and the rest of the country knew what Dr. E.P. Scarlett’s class of 2008 already knew. Memorial groups popped up, funeral arrangements were being made and families were making statements. And everyone was thinking, “poor Hannah.” Hannah was best friends with the three girls, and everyone who discussed their untimely death with me would wind the conversation down with, “Hannah, oh my god, she lost all her friends.”
Rachel thought that maybe them going all together was merciful. “Like they couldn’t live without each other, you know? They went as friends.” We all dig for explanations in time of grief, I suppose.

In this same time, Rachel and I figured out who the woman in the other car was, who the mother of the baby was. I feel uncomfortable revealing a name or any identity since the family has withheld the name for a reason, but the woman is related to another grad in the same year. The connection makes this accident more of a freak show than it was in the first place. Road and weather conditions were fine, they weren’t speeding and they weren’t drinking. How do you go like this?

This morning, I read a first-hand account by a woman who found the crash moments after it happened. She detailed finding one body in the middle of the road, broken bone poking out of her leg. Their cosmetics were strewn across the road and in the ditch. She found ballet flats and blush brushes and then the other two girls in the car. It was so ugly. And the photos of the car with the top ripped straight off and the front bumper destroyed. It’s lying in a ditch, with yellow and grey grass and a dusty sky. It’s so ugly.

There’s something horrific about watching a grotesque news story unravel itself before you when you already have the answers to the questions. It’s like watching the car crash in question in slow motion – you know where it’s going to go and you know it’s not ending anywhere good. The journalists must have been pariahs to the grieving families – looking for a lede, a picture, a detail on the girls that no other paper or network had. I watched interviews and read statements from girls I knew and I just hoped that the people talking to them were talking to them right.

Is this the career I’m picking? Is this the kind of work I want to do with myself? Digging into the ended lives of others, going after their family members for a quote or a close-up shot of them crying for what’s lost? I have to wonder if neglecting to report on something no longer makes it true. I don’t if reporters didn’t speak to the families, they would feel less grief. Nothing can fix this, you can only try to give them a platform.

Carnage is a sweet thing to know. It’s something you can bond over and feel with other people, because maybe you all hate that it happened to the same person or people. Knowing the premature death of a group of people is primal and hideous but it pulls people together for a disgusting and almost unwanted bond. I missed watching two guys beat the life out of each other because life had already been sucked away from four women. And everyone was friends, and I was part of it without even trying.

I don’t think I’m alone when I say I’d rather that we didn’t have to bond like this.

Bold-faced lies people wrote in my high school yearbook

"There is oh so much we've been through and truthfully, it's been a blast [...] I think we'll be hard to break up." - Laura McDonald
"I look forward to hearing about all of the interesting things you will do!" - Mr. Berry
"Chem 30 was awsome [sic] with you." - Grant (I don't know who this is.)
"I am the holder of your deep dark secret. It's getting out..." - Andrew Cullingham
"I love you!" - Trevor Bolland
"You'll probs be on SNL." - Kelly Ross
"You are a wonderful person and never think otherwise." - Rachel Beames
"These past 12 years with you went by so fast." - Keefe Ng
"Scachi [sic] Thank you Dont [sic] ever change." - Mike Saul (!!!!!!!!!!!!!)
"Keeper real Satch forget how to write your name Dont get to [sic] drunk this summer Adios" - Kyle? Dyle? Oyle?
"Wanna make out?" - Jennifer Newman

An open letter to Aishwarya Rai and Abhishek Bachchan

Hey you two! I know you don't know me but I've known you forever. From my earliest memories of watching Indian movies with my mother, two you have been stars in my eyes. And ever since you got married, you've been slated as Bollywood Brangelina. Respectively, the two of you have amassed an impressive fortune, nevermind an impressive following, with the multiple movies you make each year as well as the lucrative endorsement deals you both maintain. Indeed, it is all very impressive.

I may be a little late on this one, but recently I watched you two on Oprah, your first international interview as husband and wife. Aishwarya, you looked very nice in your sari, and Abhishek, you looked rather dapper in your suit. I noticed, however, a few points throughout your interview that never got fully addressed. I'd like to take the time here to take care of them. I hope you'll indulge me, you beautiful, beautiful people.

1. You both live with your parents despite the fact that you're both in their thirties, something not unheard of in India. Oprah asks how this works, to which Abhishek asks back, "Do you live with your parents?"
"No," she replies, because that's actually a really stupid fucking question since Oprah has more money than the Sultan of Brunei and can have her mother dipped in gold and mounted in front of one of her castles if she wanted.
"How does that work?" Abhishek counters, and the audience full of menopausal white women laugh and laugh and laugh. Oh, this Indian man, he is so funny and charmingly unoffensive. Why can't the men that drive taxis and check my bags at security and wash the floors at my daughter's junior high be this amiable and groomed?

Your question was never answered, so please allow me to illuminate this query.

I love my parents. I love them very much. They have raised me to have high self-esteem which is directly disporportionate with my looks, abilities and skills, which is invaluble. That said, I do not want to be living with them when I am 30. When I am 30, I will be an adult, or at least every country in the world will extend to me every allowance a country can extend. I will be able to drink anywhere, join the army, be charged as an adult for any felonies and commit statutory rape - something I'm really looking forward to. And with adulthood comes independance.
Ooh, that's a big word for you, isn't it? Let me create a simpler scene.
Every baby bird has to grow up and leave the nest and make one of its own. If the baby bird grows up and doesn't leave when it has gained the want for independance, in creeps the desire to kill the birds that brought the baby bird into the nest in the first place. And to make sure that there is no bird-blood spilled, sometimes it's just better if there are days between when the baby bird sees its parents. So what does the bird do living alone? It wakes up in the morning, has some coffee, eats something here or there, maybe goes to the gym, meets a friend for a bit, gets all its work done, calls its parents and flies over to visit whenever it can. Also, I think that when the bird is 30, it doesn't want its mother telling it to clean its room - MA, I AM AN ADULT I WILL DO IT WHEN I WANT TO, STOP FOLDING THOSE, THEY DON'T GO THERE, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

2. You two and Oprah discussed the lack of physical romance in Indian films, even kissing, something that the Western world often finds confusing, if not flat-out bizarre. Abhishek cutely pointed out that instead of kissing, the actors break out into song and dance, oftentimes atop a mountain or a grassy meadow. He wasn't exactly kidding.
Still, I feel like you two didn't completely understand why that's really weird for the rest of the world.
I agree that sometimes physically romantic expression in films isn't necessary, but the strange part is that it isn't exactly realistic to be showing your love by dancing on a train or singing in a classroom with stray children jumping around you. (These examples are all very real.)
The mountain dancing and singing is specifically jarring since the characters are transported from, say, a temple in Bangalore all the way to the Rockies in Alberta. Furthermore, their outfits have changed into much snazzier ones, with the male wearing a mesh t-shirt, sheer enough that you can just see the outline of his nipple. The woman is often wearing a short skirt with knee-high boots and a glorified bra for a top. Did I mention you're on a mountain? But no, you're right, kissing would be innappropriate. By the way, nice belly chain.

3. I'm sure you've noticed by now that I'm mentioning very little about what Aishwarya said throughout the interview, and that's a product of her not speaking much at all. When she did talk however, she had a very musical quality about her, like the sound of stale air passing through a plastic bag. It was super cute to listen to Oprah gush on how amazing her eyes were as well, and they are indeed very striking. Being empty-headed can really make your peepers sparkle.

I hope that helps you two with any confusion that may have occured during the interview. I'm sure Oprah loved having you both on, and I'm also sure that you brough a lot of joy and shock to the white Christian housewives watching at home expecting a little more Harry Connick Jr. and a little less Khalid Sheikh Mohammed.

Pyar forever,
Big S

Get noticed in a sea of faces

The class sizes of many major universities are growing each year, and students have to learn to keep up. More and more do the individuals in the class fade into a crowd of 150-plus students within one lecture hall. Still, it’s important to differenciate yourself from the masses, or to be recognized. Here are some tips.

1. Swear in class
The use of impassioned profanity when answering a professor’s question is a sure-fire way to make fellow students love and respect you. It’ll make you sound intense and brooding – you’ll be the rebel without a cause if you drop the f-bomb nonchanlantly in the middle of a chemistry class. You might alienate a few – professors included – but one can never put a value on the kind of following you’ll garner.

2. Wear an unbelievably irrational outfit
Can’t walk in heels? Strep them on and stumble your way into class like a drunk gazelle. Is it 40 degrees outside? May I suggest this giant parka that makes a rustling noise when you battle yourself out of it during class? Walk in late and you will be reassured that everyone’s eyes will be on you and your inexplicable attire.

3. Slather yourself in scented lotions, perfumes, colognes and hairspray
Beauty is important. It’s even more important than the ability of the person next to you to breath. Aim to bathe yourself in strong scents, like anything that really assaults the senses. Floral smells or something by Elizabeth Taylor will due. Extra notice will be take if you can get your hair to be so bouffant from hairspray and backcombing that the three rows behind you can’t see anything else.

4. Interrupt the professor every class with pseudo-intelligent and “witty” comments
No matter what they tell you, professors love this. Quite literally, they stand in the mirror every morning before class and say to themselves, “I really hope a self-righteous 20 year old in an ironic Love Boat t-shirt makes a comment today that’s both a thinly veiled reference to the movie Half-Baked, as well as in no way helpful or interesting. I also hope they act smug and condescending for the remainder of the class.”

5. Complain as loudly as possible in class about how big of a waste of time the lecture is
Granted, we all have classes we think are useless, albeit mandatory or other wise inescapable, but there’s no better way to set you apart than to talk ad nauseum about how much you hate the class and everyone dumb enough to be in it. (Except yourself, of course.) Turn to the student next to you, roll your eyes in regard to the professor and sigh dramatically. When a break in the lecture scomes up, bolt out of the classroom as if to say, Jesus Christ, you could not WAIT to get the hell out of there. At the end of every class, stand up and mutter as loudly as a mutter permits, “Well that was a massive waste of time.” Sure, everyone is alloted time and space to complain aboutt heir clcasses but you’re going to take it to a level that’s near criminal.

These wanton, childish acts might not always get you friends but they will get you attention. And sure, you could spend this time trying to get through these classes to learn something, but who will remember you then?

Fifteen things they don't teach you in high school about university

Read HERE.

What 9-year-old me thought my parents were saying when they spoke Hindi in front of me

Father: Our plan is going along nicely.
Mother: Indeed. In no time we will have ruined her life and any chance for social acceptance she ever had before she graduates.
Father: What are your plans for the future?
Mother: Well first off, I'm not going to let her shave until she's in junior high even though the kids at school are already calling her Scaachi the Sasquatch.
Father: That's great because she's already really bushy for a fifth-grader.
Mother: Then I won't let her wear makeup for, like, ever.
Father: Oh that's going to be a crushing blow because all the girls in grade nine will be wearing makeup, even her best friend Jennifer, but she won't be allowed.
Mother: I secretly like Jennifer better.
Father: Me too.
Mother: What are you going to do?
Father: Well, when she's twelve and tells me she wants to be a singer, I'm going to totally laugh in her face.
Mother: Awesome.
Father: Then I'm going to catch her sharing candy with a boy at school when she's in junior high and then yell at her for communicating with the opposite sex and lecture her about how she can get diseases for sharing things like that with males.
Mother: Sounds good.
Father: And when she's seventeen, I'm going to make her curfew ridiculous, like 7 p.m., and never let to go to any parties ever even though everyone else is going.
Mother: That'll be hilarious. Did you know she has a crush on Julian Back? I read it in her diary but she doesn't know I actually read it because I'm so good at putting it back in the exact same spot.
Father: Pfft, like that's ever going to happen. First off, he's dating Melanie Craig.
Mother: Yeah, and he gave her a stuffed bumblebee so they're obviously in love.
Father: Hey, we should start yelling at each other so she thinks we're having an argument and not actually taking about her.
Mother: THAT'S A REALLY GOOD IDEA BUT SHE'S TOO STUPID TO CATCH ON ANYWAY!
Father: YEAH, SHE WAS SUCH A MISTAKE TO GIVE BIRTH TO!!
Mother: LETS NEVER EXPLAIN TO HER HOW THAT HAPPENS!!!
Father: OKAY!!!!
Mother: I tell her I love her just as much as her brother but I really don't.
Father: What about high school and university? What do we do then?
Mother: Lets call all her high school teachers and get them to replace her Math homework and tests with harder ones so she has an inordinate amount of self-loathing and angst for a 15-year-old when she fails everything except English.
Father: Then lets belittle her career choice.
Mother: When she's in university, lets pretend like we miss her.
Father: We won't really.
Mother: I'm secretly on the side of Jaida, the most popular girl in the fifth grade, because she's prettier.
Father: Me too. Lets make her wear this humiliating training bra that's really an undershirt from the ages of eight to 13 even though none of the other girls have to wear them.
Mother: When she's eighteen, I'm going to ask her specific and probing questions about her body while using the word "intimate" over and over and over.
Father: Excellent.

[Be a doll and give me some hits at Macleans. I'm sufferin' over there.]

This will be my husband one day.

I'm just saying.

Friends!

I'm a Macleans OnCampus blogger now.

While the content might repeat itself here, I would hope you'll visit it with some frequency and write kind things about my beautiful face.

Gracias.

Gay Pride Week 2009

"Well, you’re quite the fag hag, aren’t you?” My. Newton looked at me from behind his coffee and cigarette, laughing at the company I hold. “It might just be that I don’t belong with the rest of the freaks in the city,” I answered.

It’s my first Gay Pride Week, hopefully of many, (“What are they proud of?” my mom asked.) and I was in the same place you can usually find me: sitting on the steps in front of the BMO with 50-year-old and up gay men while they smoke and drink overpriced Timothy’s coffee. “The Gay Steps” they’ve been subbed, thus I give Mr. Newton some credit: I, an 18-year-old straight girl, am out of place smack dab in the middle of The Gay Village.

Mr. Newton and his boyfriend, David, are in their 50s and I had met them moments ago. One important different between The Village and reality is that shifting around to accommodate someone else sitting down is cause to chat up the stranger next to you. “He just wants to sit next to you,” says Mr. Newton as David shifts towards me.

These are, for the most part, temporary friendships. For the hour or two I spend on the cement steps, your ass cheeks going numb, these men are your best friends. You talk about things you wouldn’t tell your mother. (I don’t know how truly apt that is since I don’t tell my mother the color of my eyes, but it stands.)

It was the day of the Dyke March (“Is that politically correct?” asked my father later that day.) and while I had planned to catch it on Yonge Street to see bare breast after bare breast march past me, I got caught up with these two men. I spend so much of my time here that I forget what polite small talk is actually supposed to be. “Do you spit or swallow?” asks Mr. Newton, his eyes widening at the thought of sullying who he might consider a little girl. Sure, I could blush and feel uncomfortable, but they’re still going to want an answer.

The hot day is fading away, but the crowd is going strong, stretching north on Church Street from Carlton past Wellesley and a little further. A young gay man passes us, leans down and plants his lips on my chest. It is far too commonplace for me to be worried.

David turns to me. “Let’s play critique. It’s when we make comments about other people.” I consider it more an exercise in judgment, but he calls it a harsh moniker. We spend half our time mocking those who dare wear conflicting stripe patterns, and the other half trying to find a single straight man for me. “What about chocolate men? Do you like chocolate?” I could blush and squirm and insist I’m not looking, but they’re still going to want an answer. “Cut or uncut?”
Giggles, all around.

I never end up catching Mr. Newton’s name. David introduced him as such and I never thought to ask. They’ve been dating for three years. “We’re like Liv Taylor and Richard Burton,” says David, “and he’s Liv Taylor.” Mr. Newton rolls his eyes dramatically and nods. “I am,” he says.

Of the many times I’ve sat on the BMO stoop, I’ve never been lonely for long. It’s probably not too normal that I waste away evenings with strangers decades older than myself, but I have faith in the system. A lot of them are more interesting than some of my better friends.

I part ways with the men, as I’m off to see if I can still catch the Dyke March. It’s long gone. All that’s left are the metal barriers and the aura of sexual inhibition and tits gone awry. I wander the street fair instead. It’s late afternoon and too early to go home, since I can hear the party from my apartment anyway. I see a pair of girls in bikini tops and cutoff shorts. They’re probably 19 at the oldest, with “FREE SEX, GIRLS ONLY” written across their flat stomachs. Their phone numbers adorn their backs. Straight men around the globe weep.

A transsexual passes me. Her hair is bouffant and pink. She’s wearing a pink floor-length skirt with a pink thong peaking out, but I can still see her manliness. She’s topless, with the biggest and roundest breasts I can imagine anyone with a penis having. Still, they have some brutal scars from what I assume were the surgeries. She’s very kind, however. If you ask nicely enough, she might even let you have a squeeze.

In the window of The Stag Shop, a nubile and well-sculpted young man dances in what I consider shiny underwear. The man next to me is completely naked. I’m wearing a tank top and a short skirt. The dancing boy and I are mere prudes.

I walk towards one of the drag shows when a gay man gently touches my arm. “You’re beautiful,” he says. I thank him and hurry away, embarrassed by compliments, as I hear him mutter “great legs” to his friend. And you know, I am GREAT looking, goddamn it. I am now full of aggressive confidence.

On my way back from the drag show, another gay man laughs audibly at my sunglasses. I am dejected. I schlep away in shame.

But if there’s anything I don’t like about Pride Week, it’s the endless parade of dumb t-shirt sayings. “I’m not gay but my girlfriend is.” “You don’t even have a change.” “My other shirt has your girlfriend in it.” “Dear Dorothy, I hate oz. Something something something. Find your own way home. Toto.” I am full of quasi-ironic rage.

I’ve covered the grounds and seen everything, so I sit back down on the steps with a coffee, only to find Mr. Newton and David already there. They greet me with an incomprehensible joy my family couldn’t even offer. “Oh, you’re back! Come, sit down, we’re so glad you came back.”

While I sit with them and we talk about the usual things: leather, kink, politics, religion, I notice a man circling the area suspiciously. He’s in his mid-40s, balding, and brown – clearly from my genetic region. I would sell my left lung for the chance to not have a conversation with him, but as the person to my left gets up, he sits next to me. I give David a meaningful look as if to say, “Help me! Help me!”

But it’s no use. I try to avoid turning towards him but I do anyway by accident to watch the crowd. The man begins the seductive routine I know oh-so well. “Are you from India?” he asks with a thick accent.

“No.”

His lips spread across stained baked-bean teeth. “Where from you?”

Where from I. Where from I. It’s a good question to ask, where from I. A better question to ask myself, however, is why do older, creepy, unattractive brown men find such gall (and so consistently) to make passes at me in public? Perhaps they consider the fresh-off-the-boat appeal sexy. More importantly, perhaps they consider their complete lack of understanding of the English language a turn-on. Or maybe they think that with a few kind smiles, one or two dates, they can marry me and ten get the change to ruin whatever purity they think an 18-year-old Indian girl might have. My favorite part is when they ask for an e-mail or phone number, and when I decline or lie or even tell the truth – all of which lead to no, I do not want to give you my personal contact information – the answer is usually the same: “Oh, but it’s okay. I’m Indian too, so I’m not a stranger.” Did you know, there are no rapists or crazy people from India, so you should just give them you Social Security number! Might as well drop in your bank card and whatever forms of ID you find necessary. Don’t worry, they’re Indian, they’ll take good care.

“Where from I? I from Canada.”
David wraps his arm around me. “Don’t worry,” he says, “we won’t let any straight man take you away.”

Sigh. Hero.

The next day is the main event: The Pride Parade. Yonge Street is shut down for the show, and it lasts a good few solid hours. The weather is miserable – cloudy, cold, rainy and windy without mercy. I come totally unprepared and an hour early to get a good spot. All I have is a sweater and an umbrella. I’m still getting soaked and I’m shivering while I’m at it. The kind gay men sitting next to me on Yonge Street’s median offers me a rain jacket. “Oh, take it, you’re going to be miserable.” I will never again judge someone for having a septum piercing.

I’m further down on the line, so the parade doesn’t get to me for a good half hour. From what I see, everyone sitting next to me or across is middle-aged and Asian. When did Toronto get all these straight Korean people? And since when are they interested in trannies?

The rain poured while I sat there, saving my spot. But when we heard the music and saw the balloons and boas, the skies cleared up, the rain stopped and the wind let down. Like God was saying, “Oh, you fags are alright.”

It was exhausting. The whole time you were being pulled in different directions. Techno music, naked guy, TD Bank float with the gayest men I’ve ever seen, United Church of Canada loves homos apparently, penis, penis, man with breasts and penis, feathers, bubbles, water guns and then your brain just shuts down on you. It’s a lot of color and sparkle to take in at once.

There was something still very touching about the event. I can understand that it’s hard to see value in a grown man dressing up as a purple fairy, but to see a woman march with a sign saying, “I love my trans son,” along with gay and lesbian couples toting their happy kids, there’s got to be something to say about that. Even if the something is as simple as, “Oh, that’s nice.” Well, that’s nice.

I’ve been told that in recent years, the Pride Parade has become increasingly commercialized. This is true from what I saw. Company after company sponsored a float, and it was the really big ones with too much money that had the tackiest ones. Trojan condoms, Pride Radio and TD Bank has some truly greasy men grinding up against their floats. The little guys had some class. AIDS groups, outreach groups, help phone lines – they were touching. But don’t get me wrong: I’m all about seeing an old man walk naked with a bolt through his penis. That really does it for me.

The kicker was that the Conservative Party even joined in. They had a group, with a twink decked in blue leading the pact. The crowd got a little quiet, probably out of confusion. I think even the people marching were confused by their presence.

After it was over, I headed down to the street fair again. I bought a burger and a coffee, and sat on my favorite steps to eat. This time, I didn’t get any company, but when a man passed me by myself, he stopped and asked if I was okay. “Happy Pride,” he said. It's a twisted kind of compassion in this area. They feel concerned if you look a little sad by yourself, but if you're the right gender, they still might try to fuck you.

“Happy Pride,” I answer.

Pride Week is gaudy. It’s tacky and gross and somewhat lascivious. I saw more body parts than maybe I really wanted to see, and it might be an exercise in the perverse, just to see who can be a sicker fuck than the first guy. For the people involved, however, I don’t think they see it that way. It’s a lesson in acceptance. I don’t understand all of it – I can’t imagine cutting my breasts off intentionally and then marching with an open shirt in front of half of the city – but I can appreciate it. These freaks are some of the kindest people I’ve ever met. There must be value in that. Hopefully one day, their lifestyles will be accepted enough that they don’t even need to have a Gay Pride Week. You don’t see a Hooray for Heteros Carnival or a Woo-Hoo-I’m-Black Day.

Even still, for now, I’m going to have my fun with Miss Conception and Mama Jean.

My father hasn't read a book since 1994.

"Okay, I'll bring you Of Mice and Men and you can read that. It's short."
"No, I've read that."
"Fine, what happens?"
"There's the two guys and one is big and dumb and the other one is small and smart and the big one kills mice and they go do some stuff."
"No, the plot, what's the plot?"
"Oh, it's just a story about their experiences doing things."
"But what happens? What's the climax?"
"Oh, the stuff they're doing."
"He kills a woman. George snaps a woman's neck and kills her."
"I think I skipped that page."