. . . The fifteen year old part of me, that’s still a riot grrrl, and really wishes she’d had the courage and foresight to start a band called Ramona and the Quimbys? She’s definitely a queerdo.
I’m a bad gay myself. I keep sleeping with boys. I’m a bad straight. I keep on fucking, and not getting married. I don’t think I’ll ever get married, even though I almost did when I was 23. I don’t think I’ll ever be gay or straight. Bisexual is a term that barely even fits. I gave up on this notion that I’d only ever want to sleep with or love someone of “my gender†or its “opposite†a long time ago. I don’t even know what the “opposite†of my sex is anymore. I forgot before I even moved to San Francisco.
So for lack of a better word, queerdo will do.
And if I have a generation — I barely have one of those, straddling X and Y as my birthday does — we’re the queerdoes. We don’t fit. We grew up with the internet. We barely had to come out. We’re hyper and more likely to get our community organizing chops from teaching our baby queer friends how to have safer sex with a latex glove, how to sneak into a dyke bar, how to cruise boys on the subway, than how to organize a rally. We learned what we know about politics from fucking and keeping our communities together amidst all the fucking. We’re spastic and driven and can do eight things at once.
more . . .
