Straight Guys: [streyt gayhz], n.; men who don't believe in astrology, archangels or crop circles; who watch television, eat processed mind control food, and don't know the difference between the Pleiades and Sirius B; and who think it's weird that I wash my crystals in moonlight and my face in early morning urine, and bleed onto the Earth during my cycle.
I don't not date straight guys because they bore the shït out of me. I mean, I don't not date straight guys only because they bore the shït out of me. I don't date straight guys because once the novelty of hippie, witchy me wears off, they can't actually handle how I roll, and thus, have a tendency to freak-out and/or flee when the going gets really super unfamiliar.
Case in point:
"Why are you carrying that shït in your wallet?" asks Ethan, as I offer him one of the twenty-five tabs of acid that my friend, Oren gifted me at Burning Man, and that I've been keeping in a tiny plastic bag in my change pouch ever since.
"In case the giant earthquake hits, and I'm trapped in a sea of rubble for days on end," I say, slipping one of those aforementioned tabs on my tongue. "It'll help me see the larger lessons in the perceived tragedy."
Ethan shakes his head, while placing the tiny square upon his own tongue.
"You're weird," he chuckles.
The subway we hopped on at Highland is now delivering us to the First Annual LA Weekly Street Festival, which is celebrating the infamous Best Of issue, in which I have thirteen little articles. Beck is headlining. I plan to dance my ass off.
The security guard frisks me at the gate, and asks to check my vintage canvas army shoulder bag just as I'm coming onto the LSD. She beelines for my change purse because she is clearly some all-seeing reptilian overlord hell-bent on destroying my good time, and removes the tiny plastic bag that is filled with enough Schedule 1 drugs to land me in prison for at least five years. As she eyes the baggie and waves over a uniformed LAPD officer, I remain remarkably calm while repeating the following mantra in my mind no less than a thousand times: I am protected. I am safe. This is working in my favor. I am protected. I am safe. This is working in my favor. Ethan watches, mouth agape, from the security aisle to my left, while I hold the vision of a teepee woven of golden thread surrounding me. "Is this all I'm gonna find in there?" asks the miraculously cool, young, female cop who is clearly one of my spirit guides taking temporary incarnation to save my ass, while holding the baggie of LSD between her thumb and forefinger, and shaking my purse at me.
rest of article here:(very funny) http://www.realitysandwich.com/why_i_don...aight_guys