Part of the reason I do not believe in God, or monotheism as a dialectic concurrent against Eastern pantheism, is that it is conceptually easier, as even theologians have a difficult time ascribing the existence of personhood outside or inside of natural law. Evolution and biology are also contributors, inclusive of natural deformities, like my fucking colon. I should have weighed the evidence of my segregated childhood in Old Forge grade school and given up, never aspired, nor have dared to tie sexual arousal to my history instructors who believed their precocious student was Harvard material, all due to my gastrointestinal tract. No, my darlings, Jerry was not the first, he was simply the penultimate for my asinine and obsessive temperament. The nursing students I lived with looked at me askance then, and in the contemporary era, I twirl negro assessment teams on my pinky, pleading with the ACLU for my liberty, when in point of fact, there is no such thing; in the US, we are the country of the governed, and the broken body gets governed the most. I should just give up, and let the minority paraprofessional return to their earnings off my epidermis, the least educated among them believing I am in the grasp of demonic possession.
I was not always like this. Nope. I fought with my uncle over integration, defied mio padre to try to date a wheelchair basketball player, and came on to the son of a reverend, and unlike my Shakespearean, Michael considered it; had I not lost my cool it no doubt would have been the almighty fuck of my life. I was fascinated by case law surrounding marriage and initially, in the abstract, supported gay marriage. What changed? Jesse Bering and his more notorious colleague, whose only response to me was to send me a skyscraper snapshot from his "outside your window" catalogue, the skyscraper I view every day, struggling to restore my profession from my failed vocation, may or may not know the LBGT culture I have observed, learned, and sometimes trusted, only to get a knife in my back from it, and abused by it at least twice in both my professional and client capacity, but if they do, they never write or speak of it frankly, and I know I am not winning any popularity contests, but the movie faggot who is every girl's best friend, the metrosexual wedding planner with a Vogue bible, is a non-threatening character study to reassure movie goers. The truth is messier, darker than that, and that Zola had to portray Nana's lesbianism as vicious in order to get this sad eponymous novel published is not all that far from the truth. Franzen, knowingly or not, does the same thing with Denise Lambert, who swings like a wrecking ball into her boss'es marriage, turning the wife into a masochistic whiner. Whatever the abuse and duress I've suffered, Franzen's characterization of Denise is a rebuke that illustrates an exhausted sexual liberalism, and even though this exhaustion hurts his novel, his argument is on point. The biology of sodomy and lesbian sex games may be inconsequential, procreation aside. Culturally, sexual orientation is going to send us over a cliff, and the disabled, like myself, will keep getting exploited, and this despite the fact that I have been spared being forced to be a sex toy on the down low. My intelligence and ability to react has protected me, but the developmentally disabled are fruitbowls for the welfare class. Of course, neither you, Andy, or Bering have anything to say about that. You do not even wish to consider the implications.
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