Writing is defecation. It can sting. It can be surprisingly enjoyable. It can, if you’ve been consuming crap for a while, be a dangerous mistake. But this time, it just slipped right out. It took me places I didn’t know I understood. I found myself exploring not just a homophobic stranger who had shamed me in the park one year previously, but all of the structures that supported and enabled people like her: tradition, education, religion. The heavy duty patriarchal bricks that build up the ancient illusion of “normality”. Normality, I found my left hand writing, is a crowd-sourced fantasy. I thought that one kiss, an act of defiance, might help wake us up.
