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My Lame Story

By , Yorba Linda, CA
My parents are good people, I’ll give them that. If I’m telling the truth, I’ll say I do care, I do love them, but most of the time I lie. Not because I want to hurt them, but because I’m scared to be hurt. I hate that I’m not exactly what they wanted, that I’m not a beautiful, smart, successful, prissy, amiable, placid girl. Instead of all that, they got me, a contentious, asinine, rude, obnoxious, gay son of a b****. It took me 16 years to figure out that those “smokin’ hot bods” I’d been looking at my whole life made me want to vomit up my spleen. They’ve known from the start; I’m sure they knew before I did. That didn’t make coming out any less difficult. Yeah, yeah, yeah, “we accept you,” blah blah blah. Then why are religious books appearing all over my goddamn room? They took it better than a lot of parents, I’ll give them that, but I still don’t feel comfortable. I don’t know if it’s my parents or the fact that in my little neck of the woods, everyone is “perfect.” (Well, at least they try to be.) I’ll never be that amazing girl they wished for; hell, I’ll never come close. I just hope that someday they’ll realize that I’m ok too. I may not be a straight A student with 200 hours of volunteer service under her belt, but I have good intentions, that has to count for something. They’ll accept me someday… I just have to accept myself first.





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