July 28, 2006
Hinges. Aisle 8.

It's odd - the feeling that you're coming completely unhinged.

The last few days I feel as if I have no filter. I'm acting in ways unusual to my normal behavior. Saying just how I feel without worrying about the consequences.

Not so good for blog business, I suppose. But possibly great for my non-medicated psyche.

The number one Google search for this site since Wednesday has been "Lance Bass faggot." It's no surprise people are curious about him after his big announcement this week. But it is ... curious ... their reaction to it.

As I was driving to Kent Wednesday afternoon, a local radio DJ was discussing Lance's swishy news. After a song, he came back on with a caller.

"Is that really true?" she asked, audibly distraught. "Lance Bass is gay?"

"Yes," he responded. "Are you a big fan?"

"Back in the ‘NSync days, I was so in love with him," she said. "He was my Justin!"

"So how do you feel today?"

"I don't know," she said. "I feel like vomiting. I feel like I need to shower."

Let me get this straight: There was this guy you had an inexplicable crush on. A guy who lived out of state. A guy who didn't even know you were alive. A guy so far out of your league you weren't even playing the same sport.

A guy in a boy band that was huge almost 10 years ago whom you had never met nor had any chance of meeting nor had even an infinitesimal chance of getting to notice you nor - and this is the big one honey - fall in love with you has now revealed he is gay and you need to shower?!

Because it disgusts you so? Because this affects your tiny, insignificant existence how?

My hands were shaking on the wheel. Vibrating in anger.

But the universe conspired to keep me out of jail that day. It wants me to be here with you, poppins.

Because it if hadn't, I was so incensed I would have turned that car around.

I would have spun it around, driven to her sad office in a suburban Akron strip mall, sweetly asked the receptionist to see her, marched right up to her cubicle filled with heart frames and teddy bears and, spotting her in her Wet Seal markdowns and Payless BoGo shoes and home-highlighted hair, would have donkey-punched her right in her vile, greasy, doughy, twatish face.

Lucky for me, sometimes the universe remembers to keep DJs from working their usual radio schtick and asking for callers’ names and workplaces.

Because that bitch had one hell of a limp-wristed fist coming for her.

Unhinged. Just a bit.

posted by Brian @ 08:34 PM on 07.28.06
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