Get your freak on...

I can walk down a wide hall and still manage to crash into a wide doorway. I can't eat a meal without wearing it. I am the person the toilet-paper-stuck-to-the-shoe joke was fashioned for. I excel at tripping while running upstairs--anywhere--but only in front of a large crowd. I am the person drifting off while others are conversing around me, only to clue back in by saying something that has nothing remotely to do with the subject-at-hand. I am the one who came out to my parents and really religious family members by accidently sending them a risque note meant for my girlfriend. Yes...I am a spaz.

I am a spaz who rarely feels at home anywhere...not in my shoes, not in my home, not in this part of the world, not in my skin.

But because the Universe has some semblance of compassion, there are two places I do. The Gay Village and Theatre. In either place I am suddenly in the now and alive to every sense. If you put me in the Gay Village in a theatre, I am someone else. Someone I can no longer ignore. I am no longer a freak. I morph into some kind of fearless, graceful air spirit. The mundane stresses of the world no longer bully my spirit to the back of the line. I am free.

You'd think that would inspire me, wouldn't you? I'm ramping up for it. Honest. It's a big ramp and I have to pause every 10 feet to catch my breath. But look...I am dancing up the ramp...see? Look Ma...no hands!