I spell disaster

It's a gay old time.

When my friend is using the phrase above, in her affectionate way, she is voicing her mild discontent with having to put up with somebody else's personal preparations that seem to run longer and longer as the deadline is passed. I for one realize it has to do with both procrastination and a deep insecurity that demands for elaborate care of the outside to mask the inside, which, by the way is so deep and discreet it would go unnoticed anyway. But a psychological mechanism is a psychological mechanism, nonetheless.

The latest launch of the gay magazine, or the launch of the latest gay magazine, was exactly that.

I shouldn't go into details, as I do not plan to upset anybody, but let's all note a couple of bullet points.

When you invite me there, I expect to be greeted. If you don't know me, nevermind, it's a great opportunity to. Play the host nicely, there is no such thing as a closeted host. This is a gay magazine, isn't it?

I do drink from bottles and cans occasionally, but I never do that when I am served by a waiter. If you send the drinks, send the glasses as well. Or else I am a bitch.

I know normal is a relative term, but when you claim along the lines "we" are basically normal, don't open your act with a travesty number. It doesn't work well with the psychosomatics of the general public.

I am not even sad, just solid frozen, and that is but my own fault. No animal was hurt during the production of this text.