My Cardboard Balcony

Monday Appointment by Belinda Roddie Cinnamon mints and sticky fingerprints on your collarbone in the summer heat make the air taste so sweet, and the beat of my heart is as uncoordinated as the sad attempts at modern art, dissipated into silence at the sound of your breathing, your hands weaving into spider webs in my hair. Grab a beer from the fridge, wipe the sweat from your sneer, kiss me twice before I ask you to, kiss me again before I dismiss you.

They took all of her jewelry, and all of her fancy gowns. They doled the goods out among them, covered their puckered skin in faux diamonds and rubies, stones that lacked value but made up for it in gaudy sheen. The sequins buried themselves into their flabby flanks as they danced around the room, giggling and snorting and holding hands. Seeing all four of the sisters have the time of their lives should have made me happy, but on all of their ruddy, round faces, I saw my mother's eyes glaring right at me, burning a hole into my crystalline soul.

The freeway was packed, the cars in front of me barely moving. Todd, even after craning his admittedly long neck as much as he could, said he couldn't tell if it was an accident or just plain old traffic. When we finally reached the culprit, however, it was even odder. Two children sat in the middle of the road with whom I presumed to be their mother, who was lying face down on the pavement as paramedics tended to her. Traffic had been compressed into a miserable, yet understandable, single lane.

To Whom It May Concern: Please consider this blog post an official excuse from writing a legitimate Storyteller this week, as the writer has come down with a severe case of being too gay to function. While there is no cure for this condition, certain effective treatments include attending Pride, drinking blood orange cider and champagne, watching silly Vines and Youtube videos, and other enjoyable and/or relaxing activities. The patient in question will return next week with a most likely mediocre Storyteller that hardly does anything to further the potential plot of a promising opening line. In the meantime, please send all rainbow flags, sixpacks of cider, and lesbian romance movies to the appropriate PO Box so we can continue treating this issue. Signed, Dr. Roddie B. Goode (who is actually a doctor) (don't look for my medical degree) (it's in the attic) (which is locked) (and hidden) (and only appears during a green moon)

I lived in a small, gated community for thirteen years before I went to college, which was in a sprawling urban nightmare that burned like a sty in the inflamed eye of the landscape around it. Still, the university was good. I felt freer in my dorm than I ever had in my childhood house. When I looked outside, I could get a view of the skyscrapers and lit up buildings, and sometimes I could see fireworks from the closest amusement park. Back home, I saw other people's yards, lines of cars, and fences, all iron.

I'm twenty-six years old, I'm going to San Francisco Pride tomorrow, and I figured this Facebook post I wrote about the Supreme Court ruling on same-sex marriage to be perfect for this introspection. And also partially because I'm lazy. Shut up. Well, everyone, it happened. After years of fighting and court cases and resistance from the opposing side, we woke up this morning to hear that same-sex marriage, by a 5-4 margin, is considered a constitutional right. This is absolutely amazing news and, at least for me personally, a great way to wake up in the morning. But it's not over yet. I guarantee you that we will witness a slew of anti-LGBTQ+ laws in various states, with legislatures passing numerous loopholes in regards to who can opt out of issuing marriage licenses, who can refuse service, and who can discriminate, whether or not it's under the pretense of religious freedom. There will be plenty of angry talking heads claiming that the Supreme Court has no real...

My Gay Agenda by Belinda Roddie Step one: Eat cake. Step two: Sleep. Step three: Repeat.