“I’m Just Participating In Queer Culture!” How I Justify Seeing My Ex To My Friends
By Jaclyn Di Matteo
Everyone has one time in their life received the fateful, “You up?” text, but the catch is that you are gay, so that text actually says, “heyyyy i know we haven't talked in a bit but i was wondering if youd wanna come to my Frog and Toad themed party i'm having on saturday..?”
Your eye flies to your closet. Obviously you already own the perfect Frog and Toad outfit complete with a green sweater vest that a different ex crocheted for you, so you take this as a sign from the universe to go.
Your friends disagree. They hit you with talk of ‘it's never a good idea to see your ex’ and ‘you guys have only stopped speaking for about a month,’ but you know in your heart that they are all just homophobic, they hate the gays, they don't respect your pronouns, and they defecate on pride flags everytime they go to the shitter.
You walk back to your dorm, ready to put on the gayest, greenest outfit of all time and when you open the door, you see what originally appears to be an intervention, but soon reveals itself to be a full fledged kidnapping.
They tie you up and blindfold you, but little do they know you're into that. Hornier than ever, enough adrenaline is pumping through your veins to easily take on twelve twinks so a couple of meager straight allies shouldn't be a problem.
All of your training has been leading up to this moment. All those nights drunkenly sprinting down Commonwealth Ave has prepared you for this singular experience.
You break from your ropes easily. They were tied by a virgin after all.
You sprint to your ex's house. You are hopelessly stinky, but you remember that they love your stink. They open the door to their apartment and it's a sea of green, septum piercings, and unshaven armpits.
Your eyes fall onto your ex. They’ve taken the theme to an extreme. They’re dressed in a head-to-toe frog costume complete with giant eyes coming out of their head, and they look sexier than ever.
“Hey,” they say. “Wanna come to my room and smoke a bit and catch up?”
You follow them to the familiar backdrop of their room, girl in red poster still proudly plastered to the wall. You immediately know what is about to go down. You think you’re going to take the first hit and lean in to kiss them when instead you start hacking up your left lung. It's so bad that– oh no– you vomit on your ex’s Docs. Queer culture never tasted so much like half congested dining hall pizza.