Mama once told me before she died that my blonde hair makes the sun go wild with envy.

I glance down to what I'm wearing. A crop top, a skirt - it's hot, and it made sense to me. I don't think it looks slutty; I think it looks like me.

Sometimes I think that my own company is more suitable for me than if I were around others. Because of the person that I am.

Sometimes things are so bad, the only way to keep happy is to avoid them altogether.

I hate labels, hate pronouns. They're so confining. They like some bird cage, y'know? Or prescription medicine. Some days I feel one ole way and some days another. Ain't that natural? Just call me they, them, whatever you need to make your ma happy.

Going out in tights and wigs and drag, it takes a whole lot of courage...And those gays, they're just being themselves. And I think we owe a whole lot to them, because they're going out risking their lives just to be who they are, just so we can exist.

I guess...I just want someone to love me and take me for who I am.

Sometimes it's best not to examine someone's intentions, and just take them for the asshole they really are.

The morning Mom tells me my skirt is too short, I find the lawn full of dead fledglings.

Sometimes you have to stuff certain memories so far in your back pocket that you forget they exist. And nothing that happens will cause you to pull it out. It's the only way I can keep my head on straight.