On Pride and Books and the Unknowability of Myself

My God it's hot. Isn't it just miserably, brutally, unbearably hot? Don't you just want to lie very still in a very cold room and refuse to move or think or feel or do literally anything until it's fall?

Maybe you don't, because a lot of people have a mysterious fondness for summer and revel in this oppressive, humid heat. If you're one of them, I'm so glad for you that you get to have several months of this hell, but I'm not glad for me. Every part of my being despises this time of year. I've always resented it to some extent, but it's gotten worse as my lupus symptoms have increased in severity, and this year I want to cease to exist until it's over. I have two window AC units and two reasonably powerful fans and I still don't want to do anything or go anywhere.

I'm saying all of this simply to tell you that writing this newsletter has been a struggle. I'm writing it the evening before it's due to go out, and I seriously considered skipping this week and begging for your forgiveness. If you're reading it, I guess I managed to get it done. Good for me. I didn't know what I was even going to write about until yesterday, and even now, I'm not convinced that this is something I want to write about.

It's Pride month, and that's wonderful, right? LGBTQ+ people deserve this month and all the pride they can squeeze from it. In a world where far too many people still want us dead, or at least out of sight and therefore out of mind, celebrating ourselves and our sexuality is a radical act. But for me, I don't know what I'm actually celebrating anymore, and I don't think I really care. My sexuality is whatever it is, and I'm not proud of it as much as I'm baffled by it. It's a giant cosmic shrug. It's a path through the woods except I've wandered off the path and gotten lost in the trees and I have no idea where I am. And more than that, I don't need to know where I am.