I’ve done fuck-all for Pride this year except listen to Frontalot’s “I Love Fags” on my iPod while running.

That doesn’t mean I’m not thinking of y’all. I think about you all the time. I think about what you’ve meant to me and how blighted my world would be without you, sure, but that’s not the half of it. I also think about your literary awesomeness, your dirty jackin’ house, those shirts you picked out, the determined look you get on your face, your courage, your kiss, the way you still crack me up after all these years.

Pride’s a pretty lame word for it. What I feel for you is an eleven-dimensional respect vortex of which mere pride is this world’s pale shadow.

Y’all know who you are.

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