I once went on a date with this guy. Let's see . . . I have to call him something. We'll call him Mr. Douche, as I want to respect his privacy slash don't remember his real name. That's not true. I do remember his name; that's how excited I'd been to officially go out with him. Before the night of the date, I was extremely nervous. Not taking my SATs kind-of-nervous, even more so than that. I'd say it was like waiting for test results from the clinic after a busy holiday weekend kind-of-nervous. You see, I'd casually crossed paths with Mr. Douche a few times before he officially asked me . . .
Now that I have your attention . . . I don't think I've ever publicly admitted that I hate box. More appropriately, I hate boxes. You may have already assumed this because, quite honestly, who in their right mind likes boxes? Not that I'm in my right mind, but you get the idea. Boxes are stifling. Boxes take up space. Boxes often times indicate a move of some sort is taking place, and there ain't nothing fun or exciting about moving! Boxes also tend to trap things: clothes, documents, people. And who—in any mindset—wants to feel trapped? Besides, trying to put me into a box is moot. . . .
I'm not entirely sure if it's a preconceived notion tossed upon us once we hit our twenties or just simply the gay factor, but for me, the idea of getting older has always been met with abhorrence. Specifically, the day, hell—the minute—after my twenty-first birthday, there was this feeling that I'd hit my expiration date. That's right: The milk had turned sour, the bread stale, the red lacquer worn off the bottom of a Christian Louboutin boot. I'm not exactly sure why, though. While it's been stated more times than Jennifer Lopez (who wasn't snubbed for an Oscar nomination for her role . . .