Time of Death: 4:13 PM. October 10, 2010

Patient Name: My Unquestioning Fandom of Taylor Swift

Cause of Death: The Audacity of Her Deciding to Cover “White Blank Page” by Mumford & Sons

Some songs are simply not be covered, Miss Americana. Certainly not by a whitewoman. This memory floats to the top of my mindpond as I prepare to write about an artform that was not made by or for me, yet has undoubtedly enhanced my life. I, myself, am a whitewoman. I have nothing but reverence for the queer and trans folks of color who first carved out spaces of exploration and liberation and whimsy in the ballroom scene. I, myself, am a genderexpansivequeerperson. I have felt reflected, inspired, and turned-on by many a queen. I am no longer a practitioner of organized religion, but if when I stand before the throne of god most high, I am forced to point to my place of worship…that’d have to be The Offbeat’s Drag Night as a first-time queen is dancing around to a showtunes and the crowd is going absolutely WILD for her.

How can I possibly write about drag? How do you write about the sun? How do you, indeed, catch a moonbeam in your hand?

My favorite queens are dynamic. They are giving you boots the house down, as well as seamstressery, and also outstanding impressions, oh and a stratospheric taste level. Those are my favorite queens. I worship, I laud, I admire. And there are the queens I canNOT help but respect. No matter how hard I try. These queens are untalented. Entirely delusional. I do not agree with them on their initial premise (they are talented), but I canNOT help but tip my hat to them, even as they stand hopelessly in front of a sewing machine (as if they are completely agog to find themselves on RPDR and in the middle of a sewing challenge! Did you do any of the assigned reading, maam?!) because of their commitment to their own fantasy. They do not give one singular fuck about my opinion. God, herself, (that’s right! I voted for Hilary) could come down from heaven and look this queen in her embarrassingly beat face and tell her that she was a talentless hussy (are we saying hussy?) and that bitch would not be bothered IN THE SLIGHTEST.

I am here for the fantasy. I support it in these flimsy-ass queens and have finally realized that this magic is available to all of us. Allow me to give an example. You, dear reader, surely know many words. More than one hundred, I bet. Think of all the sentences you could string together. However, you’ll find there is not one combination of those words that could come close to convincing me that every single person in every single Trader Joe’s I have ever patronized is NOT obsessed with me. They all want me. From the cereal aisle to wet produce (wet, indeed).

Do you get it now? We can just choose to believe that we are the absolute hottest mthrfckr any person in any Trader Joe’s has ever had the squirming pleasure to see. We can just do that!

*ReligousTrauma3:16 has entered the chat* Oh, dear sister, vanity is actually a sin. One

of the big ones, in fact. According to the book of…

SHUTUPYOURDUMBSTUPIDASSBITCHASSMOUTHYOUARENOTINCHARGEHERE

As long as your fantasy remains harmless to those in your community. Let it rip, babydoll. There is no limit to who you can convince yourself that you are. As the prophet Gaga once said, “Who does it hurt if everybody knows my name?” IT HURTS NO ONE, BITCH! DO IT!

I had a breakthrough in therapy last week. I know this because I said, “Is this a breakthrough!?” and my therapist said yes. It has recently come to my attention that some people have ever once had the following thought: “Well, alright. That is a sufficient amount of praise for today. I’ll go ahead and close up shop.” Are you, dear reader, privy to this? Some real human people have an actual limit to the amount of praise they can receive. My mind is boggled. Marbles. Lost.

Where, it seems, some folks have a cute widdle sheet of paper with a limited number of lines titled “Acceptable Amount of Praise” tacked ever so DIY-ly to their cute widdle hearts, I have a charming waiter at Olive Garden grating the cheese onto my salad. They tell me, “Just say when.” Here’s the twist. I never say it.

THE LIMIT DOES NOT EXIST

Verily I say unto you, I am currently, as I am typing, working myself into a Pepto-grade tummy ache at the act of conceiving a scenario in which I don’t want someone (ANYONE!) to tell me I am the absolute gem of the universe. But recent reports indicate that not everyone feels this way.

Back to my breakthrough. I call it spiritual masterbation. You, dear reader, should know that if god did not accept my initial definition of worship (back in the first paragraph, you remember. Don’t you?), that my second pick would have to be me pointing to myself in the mirror after I gave myself the best orgasm I’ve ever experienced. I am talking about channeling the divine and surrendering myself to pleasure and bla bla bla you get it. I call it spiritual masterbation.

To practice, all you need to do is to snuggle up with a book of Mary Oliver poems, listen to The Original London Cast’s recording of Les Miserables, or meditate- whatever taps you into the divine- and deliver to yourself whatever message you most need to hear. How do you know if this message is coming from a place of omniscience, deep rootedness, or just your own stinkin’ noggin? You don’t. And why does it matter? Through this practice I have created an infinite cubby in which to store my backpack, which is abso-fruitly bursting with Greek tragedy-grade feelings. I can seek all the solace I ever desire. Soak in all the affirmation I require. Hear exactly what it is I need to hear- because I’ve noticed when I entrust my deep internal care to others, no one ever gets it right all the time. And how could they? That is an unreasonable ask. But with spiritual masterbation no one ever gets tired or annoyed or confused by my everlasting bid for connection and comfort because when I pick up the phone, guess who is on the other end? Me! Or maybe not me- maybe Source, maybe Love, maybe Beyonce, but the point is they never hang up. They always have time.

The poem “A Portable Paradise” by Roger Robinson opens with the following lines:

And if I speak of Paradise,

then I’m speaking of my grandmother

Who told me to carry it always

On my person, concealed, so

No one else would know but me.

That way they can’t steal it, she’d say

I know that this silly proposition does not alter the material conditions of anyone. I know shit is rough out there. I know there is work to be done and a world to win.

I also wonder what it might be like if you moved through the world knowing Paradise is within you. It is there whenever you want or need.

I wonder what it might be like if I could commit to the delusion that I am not too much. There is space for all of me. And do this with the same fervor that these untalented queens show up with season after season on RuPaul’s Drag Race.

I wonder what it might be like if we looked within for confirmation that we are the hottest person at Trader Joe’s.

I wonder what we might find.

Why did it have to be Kim Kardashian?

My fingers are on the brink of bleeding from my frantic scrolling. I am a woman with a mission. Have you ever felt connected to your divine purpose? As if you were gifted sudden access to the intended direction of your existence? This is like that, but with the volume turned ALL THE WAY UP!

Why couldn’t it have been Rhianna? Rhianna is gorgeous and powerful. She’s an entrepreneur!

The rest of the world has slipped away leaving only me and my phone screen. I know it is here somewhere. The internet is a vast and capacious cavern. I am spelunking like nary a soul hath spelunked before.

I know I will find it.

I know I will find it.

Kim Kardashian just posted a nude selfie and I was put on this planet to unearth the blur-free version of this image. It is imperative that I see her nipples.

I am home alone and have been committed to this journey for who knows how long. It could be minutes. It could be years. I’ve never wanted anything as much as I want this.

As my furious pursuit presses on, a realization washes over me.

This is not what straight girls do.

I choose one straight friend to focus on. Do I think she is currently or likely to at any time in the near future seeking this holy grail as well? This soft, sexy holy grail. I sure don’t.

Hmm.

If my desire to see this uncensored image of an undoubtedly attractive, yet ethically concerning, woman is unquestionable and I am relatively certain that none of my straight lady pals would match or even understand my level of desire, then what does that mean?

I mean, of course I am a massive fan of boobs, but doesn’t that stem from an objective appreciation for majesty? Like, people aren’t gay because they seriously appreciate a sunrise or a waterfall. Doesn’t everyone feel like this?

Perhaps not.

A straight girl would not spend her Friday evening feverishly scouring the world wide web for an uncensored image of Kim K’s naked figure.

So that means…I’m not a straight girl.