30 Views in One Sitting? I'm Chuffed.

In my past life as a devout Mormon, I became friends with another single woman and she was the older sister I wished I had: the kind that would sit next to me at church, the kind that would take me to Sephora and urge me to buy things that I did not need, the kind that let me talk incessantly about the bands I liked, the kind that had a filthy car and did not flinch when that I told her that she was gross, the kind that met the dudes I was into and gave me real talk. Some Sundays, she would lean forward as a signal for me to scratch her back and I hated doing it because I knew it made me look really gay, but I did it anyway because I loved this woman like she was my sister. This memory of scratching her back during Sacrament Meeting and subsequently, my mom shooting daggers at us, made me laugh out loud because of the absurdity of same-sex back-scratching equating to lesbianism. Whether or not I wanted to admit it at the time, I was already on the queer-er end of the sexuality spectrum stemming from an intense crush I developed on a brunette I met my third or fourth year at Girl's Camp. Scratching another woman's back was not my sapphic catalyst into lezbroism. That's all Tegan Quin...and maybe a dude that burned me so bad that it caused me turn my back on men entirely. But that's all water under the fluidity bridge because not all men, am I right, ladies? You live, you learn, and you invest in pharmaceuticals.

Perpetually Making Things Weird

Occasionally, I am reminded of the time when I kissed someone who I was really into for the first time and we got caught by a mutual friend. I do not know why this memory pops up every now and then. I am not nostalgic for it, but I do not regret that it happened either. This person and I are well past those feelings, and when we do interact, I like to think that the vibes are relatively normal. However, when this memory pops into my head and says, "Remember when this happened?" I become embarrassed to the point that my face flushes red and I am moved to scream into a pillow. Maybe I am embarrassed because I got real handsy real fast. And perhaps what I am nostalgic for is the consequent rush that is felt after a first kiss. Either way, does this mean that my mourning process has reached its end? Let us do the math: 5.5 years / 41 days later = DTF *insert smiling emoji with sunglasses here*