To make up for the tardiness of this post and last week's, this will come in two parts.
PART ONE: GAY TERROR
Last weekend, my roommates and I went to a queer dance party called Gay Terror. The event is held once a month by a local gay org to raise funds and build community, and is themed differently each time. Last month's theme was public transit; this month's was cryptids. It was everything a queer freak like me loves in one place: boys with long hair, girls with short hair, mullets, knee high boots, weirdos with one dangly earring, Ke$ha, lesbians dressed like mothman. Have you ever been in a room full to the brim with only gay people? Before this, I hadn't. In Holly Hill, SC, the gays ARE the cryptids, no costumes needed. We hide. It's hard to pick us out of a crowd; it's not safe to walk around looking like a butch Rob Lowe in the heart of conservative America. But here, nobody repressed anything, and everyone was happy, and dancing. To dance with abandon- to be seen- to WANT to be seen. That's different, for me. To be in an alternate world where I know that everyone understands some part of my experience, that some sliver of our worldview was cut from the same cloth, that's something new, and magical, and graceful. To be in a place where for once, we're in charge- that opens up a door to a whole new kind of self love. Love for my own person, my own body, and the thronging, alive, defiant body of my community, glittering and sweating in the club lights.
PART TWO: CAT SHOPPING
It's not everyday that you turn to your friend and say "Hey, you should get a cat," and they acquiesce immediately. But I am a lucky person who gravely desires access to a cat, and my friend John has agreed that a fat calico would be the perfect addition to his home. We spent today visiting animal shelters and interviewing potential candidates. There was an ancient cat named Princess who was huge and hideous and smelly; a black cat with big green eyes and a perfect triangular face; a shaved cat, poor thing, called Fluffy; a fat, lazy boy named Oreo who agreed to be held, potentially because the struggle of escaping my grasp presented too great a challenge. John didn't go home with one today, but he has his eye on an old tortoiseshell with tiny paws muffled by a forest of hair. She looks at all times like she's just been electrocuted, because her speckled fur protrudes straight out from her wiry frame. I think she may be the one.