See that little blurb there next to the shot of the very hot, oily guy? It says "How Can You Find Love At Pride?" To which I might add: how can you not pick up a paper with a headline like that, especially if you're a love-starved homo with a better chance of being killed by a meteorite?Turns out the article in question is just a summation of the various Pride Day dances and parties. It's written by a gay guy, so I'll at least give the Westender credit for that. However, the gay guy in question is a little shitheel named Michael Harris. I've had many run-ins with him in the past, and none of them have been good.
He used to work at the gay bookstore, where his principal skill involved not serving me. He'd help the three or four people in line ahead of me, and then either refuse to serve me or he'd skip over me and help the person in line behind me. This happened at least half a dozen times, and only ended when I finally stopped shopping at Little Sister's because of it.
I realise the healthy thing to do would be to let go of this particular grudge. Only I don't want to.
The truth of the matter is, the only way to find love at Pride Day is to look like the hot, oily guy on the cover. The only one with the guts to speak the truth, it seems, is me.
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