So over the last ten days I haven't really been doing anything. I taught Bill Murray to lay down for food and he looks so so so confused while he does it. Snacking and laying down don't go together for him like they do for me. I spent a lot of time asleep and a lot of time wishing I were asleep. I lived off pancakes, wine and failed attempts of vegan omlettes. I watched a lot of lesbian themed coming-of-age movies from my mother's dvd collection and I thought a lot about my past.
I remember feeling so insecure about letting my mother know that I was dating a girl. I didn't know why I felt weird about it or why I didn't want her to know, because I knew she'd be fine with it (if not proud) because she thought I was female and she's pro lezza. I felt weird because the girls who I hung out with at underage gay things all had stories about when they came out to their parents. I'd look online and read other out of the closet stories and feel like I was supposed to tell my gay mums that I too was a lesbian (yes, that exact title) but didn't feel comfortable doing it.
So one day, 7 or so months into a relationship with my first real love, I came home to find mum baking biscuits in the kitchen. I ran through to the bathroom and shouted
"GEORGIE ASKED ME OUT TODAY", knowing that it was against the rules to talk to someone while they were on the toilet in that house. Without hesitation, my mother broke that rule she'd so sternly placed a good five years back and flung open the toilet floor while I was sitting to wee.
"IS THIS YOU COMING OUT TO ME?"
With that rebellious young streak that all teens have, I mumbled
"Fuck off mum, I'm not gay".
Mum used to complain a little to her friends with gay children about me never coming out to her properly. Since then, I've come out as a boy, a faggot, a queer, a tranny, a chubster and a slutforthemoney. I reckon I've made it up to her.
On Wednesday night I'm seeing Nikki Patin. SWOOON.