The Homosexual Agenda
I relent! And thusly, I've come to a decision. From this scrumptious butterscotch moment forward, I will totally embrace regret. Cultivate it! Wallow the fuck in it. Just like everyone always expects me to this time of year around here. HAPPY?
Now, calm down, I know: In the so-called "past," I've been all, "Ooooh! Look at me! I'm Adrian and I'm so cool that I never regret anything ever because I'm so totally above it all, so STICK IT, SUCKERS! HA!" But never again!
From now on, I promise to wrestle myself to regret's dirty basement floor, hog-tie myself in agonizing ropes of pointless repentance, take every single thing I could possibly regret for any silly little reason whatsoever, crumple it all up into a big ball of backward-looky misery, douse it in gasoline, light it on fire, and cram the flaming mess right up my own contrite and weepy corn hole. REGRET!! Let's do this.
Okay, no, wait. The problem is, with everyone so happy getting gay-married all over the place and/or acting so... I don't know... oddly mellow... lately. And what with the vile Repugs getting their evil asses finally handed to them over and over again on a no-longer-quite-so-silvery platter (more like a dirty old paper plate covered in chicken grease and dog hair) by He Who Remains Our Glorious Leader (hooray!). And what with all of the hilarious cat memes on the Facebooks and the YouTubes these days (oh, Grumpy Cat! You SCAMP!). It's not quite so easy to muster up the dark emotional clouds of rainy regret. It's just the state of the union. Let's try again. Ready? One... two... three... REGRET!
Um, hang on. Let's discuss Seattle's gay nightlife scene, which is what I'm supposed to be regretting over here, after all. Well. It's a constant carnival of dazzling creativity and twisted joy that I think kicks the glittery ass off of any other gay scene in the country—and I should know, I've been to the damn country (like TWICE). We've got world-class queens and gorgeous pole-dancing hotties and endless music and light and heart-swelling performers and glamorous happenings from pillar to bedpost, and so... JESUS CHRIST. Regrets? I'm sorry, kids. I'll try to regret things harder next year. Nothin' to see here.