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The Gay Art Of Walking Fast

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Like any gay man, I am prone to many unpleasant practices. I drink my iced coffee in arctic winters like a shivering rat, except I am an adult with an adult brain incapable of making temperature-appropriate choices. I whisper “mother” under my breath whenever any woman does something villainous. I go to a workout class where everyone is gay and everyone hates each other. When I finally got my driver’s license last year—at the ripe age of [redacted] [redacted]—I grieved for weeks. Who was I if not a passenger princess? Life behind the wheel was desolate, devastating. Suddenly I was a gay man who drove. Preposterous! I gazed out from the windshield and longed for a semi to T-bone me into oblivion. Many people contain multitudes but I am not one of them. With one queeny little wave, I bid adieu to my motorist era. For sale: driver’s license, never worn. Among my many unpleasant practices is my pathological need to win the sidewalk. “What does winning the sidewalk even mean???” you ask. Yo

The Gay Art Of Walking Fast And the importance of winning the side walk. By Michael Sun Published Like any gay man, I am prone to many unpleasant practices. I drink my iced coffee in arctic winters like a shivering rat, except I am an adult with an adult brain incapable of making temperature-appropriate choices. I whisper “mother” under my breath whenever any woman does something villainous. I go to a workout class where everyone is gay and everyone hates each other. When I finally got my driver’s license last year—at the ripe age of [redacted] [redacted] —I grieved for weeks. Who was I if not

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