Change-Not just for Countertop Charity Anymore

While sitting on a dying lawn in Portland, listening to some feminist lesbian poet spew witty remarks concerning the question, "do you know that is the Women's restroom?" I can only imagine what my brother would say. Andrea Gibson says something like, "No, but I need to find a safe place to shove this tampon up my penis." The homogeneous audience laughs, but not me. I am slowly drifting backwards. I am slowly drifting away, trying to figure out how I moved from Sunday church naps, Saturday night cruising for boys in the Meijer parking lot, and Greenville to Pride festival in Portland. I don't think I belong in either place, so when my housemate's best friend asks me if I am happy, I am quick to say "no. I don't think I have ever been happy," but I am not sure that is exactly true. We left the festival and drove up the Oregon coast. In the morning, I run sixty minutes on the ocean sand, my bare feet kissing the Pacific Ocean. When I was a kid, I used to check out every Jacques Cousteau book in the library and marvel at the pictures. I dreamed of beautiful oceans, seagulls, and sunsets, but I never believed that I would see them. Perhaps when you're a kid, you dream about your future life, but for me, I never thought I would live this long. I sort of wish I hadn't.