It’s preposterous how they were never able to see us. They first see our effeminate nature: not proper for man.  Then, our bogus identity: neither man, nor woman.  And when lucky, some will merrily behold the darken layers of our negative conditionings – plus, any other aspects of such natural lottery to which we call existence. Truth is, there’s only so much you can share during low tea at your friend’s baby shower – yet, for a gay guy like me, anything illustrious that should come out of my mind is to be shattered under the common knowledge that fully fledged faggots aim only to grasp at flowers, preferably assorted in arrangements. Trough it all, – and it’s a lot – I feel persistently reduced to an otherness originally meant for dairy cattle. I can make dresses, not books. I can raise cats, not children. How unfortunate though, that Maison Préjugé was ever tolerant to your truly misguided, undeveloped, pass judgment.

XXI century means that gone are the days when morning sickness sour-lemon face was the established greeting protocol for meetings with the gays.  That should be over. You see, in a time when ladies were busy-busy raising babies and juggling late nineteen century style criteria for Christmas parties, we – the gays – had time spare to embellish the world with Nobel prizes and couture houses, whilst some,  also became proud organizers of Gomorrah style vernissages and thanksgiving cocaine parties. Yes, ladies had centuries to master the bon chic et bon genre, and to birth blue-eyed blond rulers (preferably autocrats with a penchant for murder), yet we, the gays, contrariwise, donned the  freak c’est chic era, replacing  Margaret Thatcher for Madonna without a blink of an eye.

Nevertheless, my full-caps-why? attempts to understand WHY it is that the majority of the population reduces gay people to a flat layer of nothingness occasionally sprinkled with glitter.  Yes, we have innate insight on what texture combination makes you look like an iguana on acid, but frankly, is that so defining?  Can’t rugby players gather around and brainstorm about cushion covers?  Won’t the Texas Ranger throw an awesome breast-augmentation follow-up party?  Or more importantly: am I NOT worthy of your inquisitive profound thoughts? Sieg Heil Prejudice says no. Apparently, we’re doomed to be neither abstract nor critique worthy. Gays can be party planners, and if lucky, couturiers. Yet not a single discreet disquisition is to be made, and not the smallest Kant paraphrasing is expected. Here it’s GAY time, FUN time, ALL the time. Or is it?

Sipping Ginger Ale moderately peppered with Xanax while paragliding dressed in full Chanel couture and cargo boots as I listen to a tapped version of Aristotle’s Prior Analytics on my Ipod is what I reckon to be me. I am not a joyful hairdresser. I am not a fashion designer. I am not your archetype interior designer ready to bestow some gossip over Friday’s night sushi. And most importantly, I wont change my ways to become a bit more like your daughter’s waspy Californian ex-boyfriend who enchants flies with deluded and presently philosophical Facebook status updates – masking an egotistical attention-seeking behavior under the pretense tag: existentialism . Regrettably, I am way more than that. You can’t cut me to a flat entity eschewed by your abusive generalizations. As a human, I am, we are, and you are, creatures impervious to definition: ever-changing.  Project beings. I am what you want to see, I show what I am not.

So, dear upper-class bitch with a walking closet full of prejudice: the time has come for you do some laundry because no one is taking such hetero-normative shenanigan with joy. Plus, you should have included me in that Facebook birthday party album which I attended (and possibly may have co-organized) too. Next time hosting a party, go for something à lá mode. Maison Préjugé? Démodé, pas démodé? Il ne s’agit pas des Rondo Veneziano, un point c’est tout.