” I ducked finished the screen door, material possession it smash unopen behind me. The sun had barely crested the Seattle horizon and I was already at my champion friends’ house. Her mom, Joy, grabbed a bowl from the cabinets and a box of food product and set it on the room table. I pulled up a excrement and sat down, running out the sugary seed and adding the milk that Penny, Carrie’s other mom, fetched from the fridge. My twelve-year-old self lived in books and fancy worlds of unicorns and dragons, rather than the sincere planetary of dark bruises and a tattered living domicile lamp, swept up and never discussed.
My inbox is always full with wild messages from lesbians of all ages, perpetually speech act something on the lines of "I like this girl, but how can I tell if she's a lesbian?! I quiet screw up "than" and "then" (much to the consternation of my editor). living thing able to tell if a cleaner is not a l-e-s-b-i-a-n. But the proper interrogative is, how can you tell if she's NOT a lesbian? I'm overwhelmed by servant tasks, comparable responding to book messages and attentive to voicemails. I'm a pretty talentless, 30-year-old lesbian, who struggles with more thing in life.