I Join A Clique

Warning: this post may contain strong language. Actually, you know what? This post definitely contains strong language. I know, since I fucking wrote it. Last year I had an amazing group of friends. It was the first time I’d been part of a tight-knit clique rather than an oozing mob. To commemorate this special relationship, I wrote a series of poems dedicated to these three lovely girls. 

The first one is entitled “Elaine”*.
Fuck you

Fuck you

Fuck fuck fuck fuck 

Twatwaffle
This second one is “Victoire”. 
An inability to become emotionally invested in people is not a virtue, you miserable bastard. 
And finally, “Miley”:
Bitch.
After I made out with Elaine (more on that here: https://thequeerprotagonist.wordpress.com/2017/01/29/first-blog-post/ )Victoire stopped talking to us for a week without explaining why, and then after causing several mental breakdowns for both herself and the rest of us, she decided to go with us to Homecoming. In order to regain our friendship, she said we could do whatever we wanted to her. So we egged her car. 

Victoire spent the remainder of senior year avoiding me. She started talking to Elaine again, although god knows why, because the whole egging thing was Elaine’s idea. Elaine and I stayed close for a while, and then I said something about “you shouldn’t cheat on your boyfriend” and she broke up with me. I think Miley and Elaine are still friends. Sort of. I wouldn’t know, since I blocked Miley’s number. 

The reason I’m bringing this up is, firstly, because I’m bitter. As an example, see below- last night a group of friends and I burned a picture Victoire painted for my boyfriend back when he was stupid and dating her instead of me. (This group of friends included the infamous Rose Velt (Rose Velt doesn’t really need to be mentioned here but asked nicely so I agreed (“nicely” is relative- I might have been concussed at the time so I forget most of the details (how many parentheses can I include in one sentence?))).)


Secondly, I want to explain queer-platonic partnerships. That’s what Elaine, Victoire and I were. Queer-platonic is a label used to describe a love that’s not romantic but goes deeper than friendship. It establishes a special connection with two or more people of any gender or sexuality without adding the pressures of dating or sexual intimacy. Blah blah blah, word sewage, something fancy to convince you that “queer platonic” isn’t millennial hipster junk. Which it totally is. But that doesn’t diminish the fact that I loved those girls more than anything in the world. 

Let’s have a quick Question and Answer about queer-platonic partnerships. If you have questions I don’t answer here, feel free to ask me in the comments.
Q: Aren’t you just describing friends with benefits?

A: Yes. Except the benefit isn’t sex, it’s a onslaught of crippling depression when you break up. So actually I’m describing “friends with horrific side effects”. I think this applies to humanity in general, though.
Q: What’s the most important aspect of having a successful queer-platonic partnership?

A: As in most relationships, communication is essential. It’s also essential not to be a jealous bitch. For example, if your partner loves someone else in addition to you, it will make you happier to recognize that this in no way diminishes their feelings for you. And if you do have a problem with something your partner is doing, for example, making out with another partner, it’s important to talk to both of them instead of shutting down because you have unrealistic expectations for people and think they can magically read your mind. This is, of course, a hypothetical situation and I’m not pointing fingers at anyone (*cough* Victoire *cough cough*).
Q: Fiona, why are you being so petty?

A: I’m not being petty! Maybe YOU’RE being petty.

Q: You’re the one who wrote a blog post dissing the girls you used to love.

A: Yeah, okay, I’m being a little petty.

Q: A lot petty.

A: I’m being extremely petty. To be fair, Victoire still doesn’t acknowledge my presence in class, has sleepovers with my ex girlfriend, and tried to get my boyfriend to break up with me. I think I’m entitled to a little pettiness. 
I know I hurt Victoire. But she hurt me too, and unlike her, I tried to fix it. Right now I’m being petty because writing this makes me feel better, and then I’ll let it go. That’s the best anyone can do.
*I did, technically, change all names used in this post. I’m not sure how much good that does since most people who know me also know Victoire, Elaine and Miley, but I did try. So probably no one can sue me.

I Have Two Gay Boyfriends

My boyfriend is gay. He’ll deny this, but he once called his best friend “Darling”. Best friend and I won’t let him forget this, no matter how many times he points to the fact that he just happened to be thinking about me. While looking at his best friend. And talking to him.

“You were standing right there!” Andrew protests while reading this post over my shoulder. Shut up. We all know who you really love.

I don’t have a problem with his sexuality, because this is the guy who agreed to an open relationship where I occasionally date girls, so I’m really in no position to judge. On the other hand, he might be straight, because he wears track pants and a sweatshirt every day. One of the gays needs to give him a fashion lesson.

He’s still protesting. “I don’t dress gay, I don’t act gay, I’m sorry that I’m secretly in love with Jenkins*….” etc. (There were also a few expletives in there.)

I have another gay boyfriend. This one is actually gay, but actually not my boyfriend. I did ask him out once, to try to prove to my mother that I’m not a lesbian, but we ended up not going out and then not talking to each other for a year because we felt awkward. Also, Mom still calls me a lesbian.

I knew Steve was gay two years before he came out because of the way he holds his hands. Gay people have flashy wrists. 

flashy wrist

 

Logically, I know this is stereotyping, but Steve tries very hard to be a stereotype and is largely successful. He takes- and this is not hyperbole- literal hours to plans out his Starbucks order. He thinks La La Land is the best American creation ever, including the creation of democracy. He likes guys. See? Totally gay.

But Steve talks about being physically attracted to me. He likes looking at girls, just not being with them. His random hookups are usually guys. We were talking about this the other day, lounging in the (gay) grass with his (gay) head on my (lesbian, according to my mother) lap, and he said,

“What’s wrong with me?” while moving his flashy gay hands wildly.

Oh, Steve. Silly boy. What’s wrong with you is what’s wrong with most of us- crippling depression. Other than that, nothing.

“You might be bisexual,” I said. “Or you’re homosexual and smart enough to realize that I’m damn sexy. Or, you don’t need to label yourself because you’re wonderful the way you are.”

I personally love labels. They’re a great way to express something to the general population without having to describe it in a wordy blog post. I label myself as bisexual, because I’m attracted to both boobs and penises. Also, collarbones. Everyone has collarbones so everyone is automatically smokin’.

I also label myself as panromantic. Pan means all, as in all genders, since some people don’t choose to label themself as male or female. The romantic part comes from who I like romantically versus sexually. For me, there’s a disconnect between romantic and sexual attraction (and yes I realize this is not the case for most people, and I respect that, you horny bastards). I’ve liked people of multiple genders, so I’m panromantic, but there are only two sets of genitalia and I like them both, so I’m bisexual.

I also label myself as HELLA FINE.

Andrew labels himself as “yes Fiona I’m a straight white male I’m so glad you love me anyway”. It’s not that I dislike straight white males, it’s just that most of them are annoyed by my ranting about the patriarchy. In that regard, they’re similar to my mother.

Oh, what was that? You’re a straight white male and your feelings are hurt? I apologize. And I’m actually being sincere here- labels are fine when you give them to yourself, but being grouped into boxes just because of your race, sexuality or gender is not okay. In order not to discriminate, I just hate everyone.
*Jenkins is the name Andrew chose, not his friend’s real name (thank god). Steve is also fake. Not the person, the name.

I Have Excellent Luck With Cops

I sometimes have a difficult time following “rules”, which I like to refer to as “suggestions”. This occasionally gets me in trouble with the law. I’ve found, however, that it’s not very hard to make police officers like you- you just have to be a young white female and pretend you’re stupid.

For example, the first time I was pulled over, the conversation went something like this:

“I’m really sorry Officer. Was I doing something wrong?”

“Ma’am, do you know what the speed limit is?”

“Seventy?”

“It’s twenty-five, ma’am.”

“Gosh golly! I’m so sorry, Officer. I thought this was a highway.”

“This is a neighborhood.”

“Oops. Lol. Good thing I’m not black, right? Love your lipstick.”

This technique is actually guaranteed to work, as I have never been arrested. I did come close once, though. This past summer, my girlfriend and I spent a lot of time in the Man Cave ™ I made in the back of my car (for a step-by-step tutorial, see the previous post). We had a favorite parking lot and everything. Unfortunately, our parking lot of choice was attached to a public park, and it’s illegal to stay on government property after God paints the sunset. Or something like that. Also, when the cop found us, Miley had been drinking and I was out passed the state curfew. Oops.

So anyway, this cop is all “I’ll give you a moment to collect yourselves”, which I interpreted to mean “stare blankly into the flashing lights of the police car in order to induce a seizure”. Then he said,

“Your license, ma’am,”

and I said, “Yes I have one”

and he said, “I need to see it.”

So I handed it to him, but the lights were still flashing and suddenly I felt very, very sick. I doubled over on the asphalt, hands on the ground, heaving.

Have you ever had a seizure?

I haven’t either, actually. I have had a very kind police officer help me up and set me back in my car with a water bottle he produced from God knows where. Miley said afterwards that he must have a soft spot for gay kids, because she was pretty sure I was about to be arrested for drunk driving, and she’d have to explain to my parents why they had to pick me up from the station at two in the freakin morning. Personally, I was using words stronger than “freakin”. (They start with the same letter though.)

Here’s a picture of me with the cop. Miley’s there too, but since we aren’t talking anymore I had to blur her face.

fullsizerender

When I was younger, I was a staunch believer in the Mormon church, which has a lot of rules. Here are a few of the actual Mormon commandments. 

  1. Don’t wear tank tops.
  2. Don’t wear bikinis.
  3. Don’t wear skinny jeans.
  4. Don’t be mean to people.
  5. Unless they’re women. Or black. Or gay. Or wrong.
  6. Don’t drink hot drinks. This means coffee and tea. Hot cocoa is okay, because it isn’t caffeinated. Also, caffeinated soda is okay. But hot + caffeinated = bad.
  7. Always wear your magic underwear.
  8. Child abuse, rape and murder are punishable by excommunication. So is gay marriage.

Following so many rules for the first sixteen years of my life has had some interesting effects. For example, I now wear exclusively bikinis. I’ve gotten complaints from the school, and they aren’t very comfortable to sleep in, but other than that I’ve enjoyed my small act of rebellion. Another side effect of Mormonism is that, like all good Mormons, I know eighteen ways to make green jello. But because I’m a bitter asshole, I only make green jello that’s hot and caffeinated, and then I make my family watch me eat it. I’ve included my favorite green jello recipe below so that we can all be miserable together.

Probably the biggest Mormon rule I’ve broken is the “be mean to gay people” one. I’m actually nice to gay people. Well, I’m nice to gay women. I buy them coffee. Also, we kiss.

 

 

How to Make Fiona’s Fantabulous Green Jello:

  1. Die. Or kill someone. Whichever works best for you.
  2. Have a funeral.
  3. The Mormons will bring you green jello.

I promise, this works. It really does. Mormons have a thing for funerals.

 

*I change everyone’s name in my blog, unless given express permission. I myself have given myself permission to use my real name, which is Fiona Chai. Fiona Chai means “white life”, which is cool because it’s completely racist.

I Become (relatively) Less Crazy

My boyfriend and I are arguing about who’s crazier.

I think it’s him. This is the guy who kidnapped his best friend, tied him up, and locked him in the trunk of a car. For fun. And it wasn’t one of those nice, big, airy trunks. It was a tiny, claustrophobic, panic-attack inducing hell hole. You know- the kind that screams, “I’m a serial killer, but I’m too cheap to buy a van”.  That’s borderline psychotic.

“Well, we had permission from his mom,” Andrew* says. “And anyway. It’s not as crazy as a threesome.”

“We didn’t have a threesome!”

“In the back of your car. While it was moving.”

It wasn’t a threesome. My friends (ie, “cult”) and I were playing Gay Chicken, which  is a great game for horny, bisexual teenagers with little to no social life. Basically, the goal is to make your same-gender competitor as physically uncomfortable as possible, while they do the same to you. First one to feel awkward enough to call it off loses. As a horny bisexual teenager myself, I kick ass at Gay Chicken. And since most of my friends are also gay it’s really just an excuse to touch people you aren’t dating. Please pray for our souls.

The game in question happened in October, in the parking lot of an abandoned baseball diamond. We were in the back of my car because Gay Chicken doesn’t have a high parental approval rating, and the game ended when Victoire, who has a butch haircut but is completely straight, threatened to leave because Elaine and I were making her uncomfortable. It’s worth noting here that Elaine and I were actually playing against each other, not Victoire, but we’re both about as stubborn as our current Congress so no one was willing to concede the game.  We called it a tie and made Victoire drive us to IHop while Elaine, myself, and my then girlfriend (and current cringe story) made out in the back of the car. The whole situation is one that my imaginary and bespectacled Great Aunt Margarine would call “scandalous”, but we didn’t actually have sex.

“You’re still crazier,” Andrew says. “Smh.” (He doesn’t actually say “smh”. I’m paraphrasing.)

The “who’s crazier” argument lasts for about three days, to the general entertainment of the unfortunate people who have to listen to us. I point out that kidnapping is illegal, and that the back of my car is safer than Andrew’s trunk because I turned it into a Man Cave™, complete with decorative pillows and a floral quilt. Andrew and his surprisingly invested friend group refuse to accept this.

Until…  *cue dramatic music* their car battery died.

Why did the car battery die?

They’d spent the night on a stake out of the same friend they’d recently abducted. After tailing him to his girlfriend’s townhome, they’d sat there and waited in the darkening parking lot for two hours. Two hours. I give up on homework after, like, four minutes.

Being the goddess among men that I am, I drove over and let them use my car to restart the battery. Andrew finally admitted that he’s crazier, and I received a lovely thank you note graffitied on my windshield: “Thanks for turning on Andrew and his car”.

img_9429

Anyway, the point in all this is that I won our argument. I guess another point would be that stalking is bad, but if that’s true then why are so many people on Facebook? Smh. You can be the judge of your own morals.

Until next time, Fiona Chai out.

 

 

Side Note: Everyone should have a Man Cave™. Here’s a detailed tutorial for how I made mine:

  1. Mom told me to make my bed.
  2. I didn’t want to make my bed, so instead I took all of my blankets and pillows and threw them in my trunk.

img_9431

I know this is a little complicated, so if you have any questions on how to make your own Man Cave™, just ask in the comments. Please keep in mind that this is not a beginner DIY project, but I’ll do my best to help.

 

*Andrew said I could use his real name, but I changed everyone else’s. This is because I don’t want them to get famous like me. Also, I wouldn’t put it passed Victoire to sue me for using her real name, which is Hannah**.

 

**Just kidding. Victoire’s real name isn’t Hannah. She really would sue me.