I was a runaway gay, a dive bar drag queen, a rhinestone on the nation’s bible belt. I had a gun. I recounted the memories of my first fifteen years, enhancing the events in such a way that a psychiatrist might take my side. I wrote the argument as best I could, fact-checking and spell-checking and so on and forth, and when finished...I had a book. It said everything that needed said, or so I hoped a therapist would note.

     But in the end, with less education and more cigarettes, I think my grandma said it best…

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