The Cult of Melinda

The gAyTM is closed! No gay rights, no gay $$$!

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Warning: Holiday-Induced Mushiness Ahead

Have you ever realized that you have the best friends in the world? No, of course you haven't, because I have them.

It's really amazing to me that I've managed to make and keep so many wonderful friends. I've never been the social butterfly, although I'm pretty good at faking it after a beer or two or six. Usually, I had the one true friend and a bunch of people I'd party with or sleep with but never really connect with. I've also never been really good at allowing people to get close to me. Trust isn't something that comes easy after the life I've had. But somehow, I hit the friendship jackpot.

Partially through the intervention of my beloved first college roommate Becca, aka the UN's representative to Bienville Hall, I ended up with this great group of nerdy, wild and truly genuine people in my life. Oh sure, some of us bicker over politics and economics and can get a pretty good steam coming out of our ears, but then we end with "Yeah, I love you anyway, you fat capitalist pig." and all is well with the world.

The sci-fi geeks taught me how to play, how to sneak down the stairs of the math building so that we could all get to "base" together, how to do suicide runs in laser tag because winning isn't as much fun as kicking ass on enemy territory, how to pull a Washington monument-sized stick out of my ass, how to get felt up by a future housewife without looking utterly shocked (eventually), how to sing in French about rednecks and breeders, how to translate references to ancient Roman battle tactics into a conversation about women... You know, the usual things friends teach you.

The artists, musicians, drag queens, pagans, weird Arab boys, corrupted former Mormons, adopted little brothers, hot cultists, etc. helped me express my creative side and my "manhood". They were willing to drum with me, to sing with me, to drink with me, to wake up hung over with me, to take me on man walks, to help me stay strong when the seductress was trying to get answers out of me the sexy way, to get me access to the "good" cameras and the editing suite, to pimp me to a super-hot bartender for free drinks, to drag me to death metal concerts and jam sessions at a Hare Krishna temple, to tell everyone that I was G-d's gift to the world, to let me have drunken conversations with their boobs or follow their asses home from the bar at 5 a.m., to warm my lap on cold winter nights in New Orleans, to buy me weapons so that I could impress a woman who really wasn't worth it, to help me pick out the best wine to bring to a first date with a gourmet chef... You know, the usual things friends do.

The lesbians gave me my own personal ass-kicking Cajun chef and a talented artist who taught me to be proud of who I am and to not feel guilty for knowing that I really can kick ass and that I really am absolutely brilliant, monstrously talented, unbelievably adorable and immensely humble. They've fed me and comforted me and raged with me. They've sparred with me both mentally and physically and left me, I think, a better person. And even though they let T. steal my bra tag, I'll never forget all that they've done for me.

New York gave me my imaginary husband, the sexiest thing on earth with a Y chromosome. Overwhelmed by culture shock and post-traumatic stress disorder, I wouldn't have made it through NYU without him. The hubby taught me to be fabulous, escorted me to gay bars where the queens could feed my ego with raves about how hot I am (You haven't lived until you've been a lesbian being hit on by gay men.), showed me the night life at wild and now-legendary parties called things like Motherfucker, trudged over to Coney Island with me for a "date" with Insectivora, skipped out on a freelance assignment to hang with me on a hard and lonely night, and developed with me a special silent language that allowed us to quietly confirm that "Yes, the professor's boots are definitely making us hot." without said professor ever knowing about the puddles of drool created in her name. One of these days, sweetie, we're going to Massachussetts. haha

So whatever happens with my health or my life or my career, I have this one aspect of my life where there will never be regrets except maybe not saying this enough:

You guys are the happy childhood I never had. For the first time ever, I think I can love without waiting to be betrayed or hurt. You taught me how to be myself without worrying about public expectations or my private shame. For that, I am truly grateful. Now, send me more baked goods.

3 Comments:

Blogger Stacey said...

Awwww, I love you too, ya big commie pinko.

Which weird Arab boy are you talking about? "Mine," or Habib?

Baked goods indeed. Tug on my heart strings for baked goods. HMPH.

7:08 AM  
Blogger Melinda Barton said...

Habib. I put it in the plural just because it fit better. Though "Yours" was kind of fun at times. I'll never tell a french-speaking person that a girl is "hot" again. haha

7:22 AM  
Blogger Stacey said...

hahahahahaha oh my gosh, I'd so forgotten that part. How did I forget that part???

2:13 PM  

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