Alexander Hardy, wordsmith for hire, is the dance captain of Saint Damita Jo Jackson’s Royal Army. He writes on life, race and chicken at thecoloredboy.com and elsewhere. He does not believe in snow.
In the 11th grade, I was outed as a Homosexican by a wicked lesbian with a brawny, murderous jawline. She was the nefarious and lesbianly athletic bastion of projectile teenage misery, and I, the unpopular, inconsequential bystander of her hatred for my then best friends.
That was about the time I went from "scatterbrained"—as I'd attempted to complete five to eight tasks from an unending To-Do list, simultaneously—to "overwhelmed." I began writing for shiny online outlets while teaching English-as-a-second-language (ESL) courses, leading dance and fitness classes, and making Mom and Dad and Grandma proud, while contending with long-standing inadequacy issues that now fully consumed me. Things just seemed to be easier to face while a little bit fucked up.