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Saturday, July 17, 2004

I always thought it was stupid how all my friends would complain that the only boys they like are gay, that the only ones with sensitivity and/or fashion sense seem to bat for the other team. I mean, what does that mean for heterosexuality? I, for one, want a boy who is inclined to spread whipped cream on my pussy. So here is where my story begins...

We'll call him Sephiroth. Sephy is the definition of the prettyboy. He has long hair. He has a cute body. He is the only boy whose clothes I want to see in tatters on the floor of my room between a stack of comic books and a GameCube controller. He is gentle. He is eloquent. He is my type.

And he is gay.

Phooey! Curse you, God, and your unfathomable reasons for making straight women attracted to gay men and straight men attracted to lesbians. Wait a minute... (pauses and flexes her muscles inward with intense fury) Quiet! I'm growing out my armpit hair! After this, all I'll need to do is get a mohawk and plaid shorts in order to get a train of guys to watch my every move.

This, by the way, is the biggest lesson against homophobia: guys, you really ought to listen to gay men more. _They_ know where its at. Let some of that gay-ness rub off on you. We dig that. Trust me.

Also, wear a kilt, because we (I) dig that.

Leticia

(Sephiroth once said, "You know, gender doesn't really matter to me so as long as you have the equipment. I'm no good with vaginas." Har har! Fuck you.)

(And I mean that in the kindest, gentlest manner, by which I mean that you need to rip my clothes off, right now, in the car, and play that one song from Jet Set Radio Future while you do it. Get down on the floor! [Say what?] I say get down on the floor? [Say what?] I say get down! I wanna see something I've never seen before...)

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