Listening while drifting in a Vicodin half-sleep to my classmate's radio essays.1 They are so very, very, good.
I was in pain when I came home from the dentist this morning. And I was exhausted and terrified because there is something at work that might be wrong, the kind of wrong I can't even say, not to anyone, because I am too horrified to even say it in my head. And I hadn't slept a full night for days, and I didn't know when I would sleep this weekend, or how to handle all the food, there will be a lot of it this weekend, too, and it was not too much but only barely.
What I wanted was my bed, my stuffed walrus, maybe my friends later when they come home.
And it's funny, but I'm proud of that. Because I didn't want him. I didn't want his apartment. I wanted the things that give me strength, and it is my life that does that, my home, my bed. Three years ago, I loved Satanist Dan for the escape he provided. I ran away to him. Now, I don't want to escape. Not anymore. I'm home.
I joined the ballroom competition team, and the gold shoe girls smiled at me and introduced themselves. I will never be as good as the girls with real training, the ones with ten years of ballet and modern, but I am good. In nine months, I have learned to waltz, tango, foxtrot, rumba, hustle, country two-step, nightclub two-step, cha-cha, and in two different parts each. Well, I can't lead a country two-step yet. But I will. Remember that salsa step that kicked my ass? I can do it now.
And Born This Way? It's totally a hustle. And it's SO. MUCH. FUN.