You know that type of laughter that starts off as a small chuckle but kinda builds up inside your throat, eventually mounting into a full blown, bent over yourself, holding your stomach as you guffaw uproariously?
Yeeeep.
this should be a sculpture about the human condition entitled ‘Unbridled Optimism Meets An Uncaring Universe’
There are photos that tell a story, then there are photos that tell a story.
I know we don’t get happily ever afters in real life. I’m a hopeless romantic, not a total fucking idiot. As my friend, Russell, said to me once, “Even with the happiest couples, one of you dies first.” But first there is such unalloyed joy.
We went to the supermarket yesterday and we were wandering around and,
at one point, he took my hand, because that’s the kind of thing he does. And instantly, I got flustered. Residual anxiety. Remembrance of past battery. Enduring scars. Even though I know I’m hardly likely to get my head kicked in by the salad bar, PDAs can still make me nervous. And then he said, gentle as anything, and I’m not going to do the accent…
“If there’s a gay kid in here with his folks, frightened that he’s a freak, don’t you think that it might give him hope, seeing two guys wandering around, being themselves, getting their groceries, like everyone else?” If happiness is a place… it’s the biscuit aisle in Sainsbury’s. And anywhere else I am with him.
likeanantennastraighttoheaven 