Felix Ever After

after having his tongue down the guy’s throat for approximately an hour,

look‍­ing back on it now, it’s dif‍­fi‍­cult to fig‍­ure out if I was ac‍­tu‍­ally into him, if I just wanted to be him—or both.

“I thought Kovu was pretty hot,”

When someone hurts me, I either obsess over how to convince them I’m worthy of their love or obsess over how to destroy them.

“The shows aren’t making people gay,” Austin says. “They’re just making people realize it’s even . . . I don’t know, a possibility. It’s like we’re all brainwashed from the time we’re babies to think that we have to be straight.”

The Fleetwood Mac station is still on, so “Spirit in the Sky” by Norman Greenbaum begins to play. Ezra gets up and starts pirouetting around and around—he’s been classically trained since the age of five. I pick off a couple leaves of the weed, grab some of the paper that’s waiting beside the TV, and roll while Ezra kicks his leg all the way up to the beat, toes pointed and all. The lighter is at the edge of the counter in the kitchen—I click, click, until the paper sizzles and smoke wisps into the air. Ezra slides to my side, and I pop the bud in his mouth. I yank open the window that faces an empty alleyway, and we crawl out onto the fire escape, legs dangling. The sun is starting to make its way down. The sky’s darker, purple hues off on the horizon.
“You ever wonder,” he says, squinting up at the sky, “why we’re here?”
Oh, God. High philosophical Ezra is the literal worst. “There’s no reason why we’re here. We just exist. That’s all. That’s it.”