Well, helloooo, homos!
You know that thing that queers do when they get into a serious relationship and then just… vanish?
My sweet, loving, tender gays.
I did this. I pulled this shit on you.
I got myself into a new, serious relationship and fell off the face of the earth.
Three years ago, I stopped writing on this mess. I said I’d be back.
I didn’t come back.
I lost myself inside my new relationship. I never looked at this blog, not even to check to make sure the comments on posts from 2012 weren’t being spammed by weird spell-casting scammers or penis-enlargement sellers.
A year into my “break,” I started to miss writing on here.
I began making excuses.
“This isn’t the right time to talk—the internet does not need to hear from a cis, white lesbian right now. I need to leave room for other voices to be heard.”
“What even is a dyke? Am I a dyke? Is this a word I can still claim? What does it mean? Is a “dyke” a cisgender woman who is only attracted to cisgender women? Because I’m not that. Is “dyke” even a word for me anymore? AUGH.”
“If I start up the blog again, I want it to look sleek and new and have a cute new logo and be on a new hosting platform and not look like it was built in 2009. Wait, that’s a lot of work… I don’t know how to do any of that… OK forget it.”
“I’m in the first 100% monogamous relationship of my life, I’m going out way less, and I used to write about sleeping around a lot. Who would want to read anything about what I’m thinking anymore?”
“OMG, there’s a new season of American Horror Story. I’ll write tomorrow.”
|[all hail AHS: Hotel season]|
I could keep going, gayelles. I had plenty of excuses for why I wasn’t writing anymore, and I don’t mean writing just on here, on this blog.
I stopped writing almost entirely, about anything.
It was because I got really sad.
It happened slowly.
In Chicago, I started to feel lost and quiet and grey, more often than not. Like a light inside me had dimmed, somehow, and I didn't know how to take steps back to when it was bright.
I used to be a person I liked. I used to think I was rad, and be thrilled to wake up and see queers everywhere I went, and to go out, and to fool around with my friends. I lived alone, in a beautiful little studio, just me and my pet rabbit, Timothy Maxwell Thumperton.
I loved to write and talk obsessively about homos, and I liked to date everyone.
One by one, without understanding why, I started shutting the windows into my life. I stopped doing the things I loved. I stopped dating. I stopped writing in my journal, I stopped going to queer events, I stopped wearing lipstick.
I moved out of my cute lil' studio and in with my new partner. We loved each other intensely, and had good times. We also fought a lot. Awful fights; fights I didn’t even know I had the capacity to be having.
I stopped talking to my friends about what was actually going on with me. I stopped posting on social media—what would I say? How could I post anything personal when I felt less like myself than I ever had? How could I post anything at all when so much terrible shit was happening in the news, every single day?
Baggy grey tunics, sluts!
CAN U IMAGINE.
And all of a sudden, years had gone by, and I couldn’t actually remember what had ever been fun about me.
I had a vague memory in the back of my mind of being happy, maybe, a long time ago, but I wasn’t anymore, and I didn’t know why, or what to do about it.
One day, this past April, I had a particularly nasty fight with my partner. We’d just moved into a house in Chicago six days prior, and I was upstairs in our bedroom, wondering what the fuck I was going to do and how I had gotten to this place. I called my best friend, Tawnya, who I hadn’t called in a year, and just started crying. I told her everything. She listened and then cried, too. Without even thinking it through, I falteringly asked her if her new house in Minneapolis had any extra rooms.
She laughed, snot through her tears. “Do we have any extra rooms??? Come tomorrow,” she said.
My hands shook as I held the phone to my ear.
My best friend. My ride or die.
“Do you need money?” Tawnya asked. “Do you need us to come get you? Do you want to fly here? Come home. Live with us. Do we have any fucking extra rooms.”
I moved to Minneapolis in August.
I’m entirely single now, for the first time in my adult life.
This should be good.
I had no idea how sad I was, until I wasn’t anymore.
And I’m back! And I feel 300% better! And I missed writing this blog! And I missed you, more than you know! AND WE’RE GOING TO TALK ABOUT FUCKINGGGGGG omg are we ever.
Effing Dykes is officially open for queer business! I don’t know if anyone will even check this anymore, but it’s OK—I really, really just want to write about gheys again, because that used to make me happier than anything.
I’d love it if you wrote to me at email@example.com. Ask me questions! Tell me funny stories! Look for shorter posts, more often. Eventually, there probably will be a sleek new blogging platform, and a cute new logo, and all that other great shit, but for now?
I just wanted to write to y’allfags again.
Lez chat it out, faggettes.