No Man Is an Island – Except for the 40-Year-Old Gay One Trapped Inside My Body

I’d never seen so much plastic before, never felt such a glowing admiration for synthetic materials as when I was surrounded by hundreds of sculpted ski-jump noses, swollen lips, and balloon-like mammories.

Perhaps no (wo)man is island, but I was a lone porcelain and short- and dark-haired bit of groundedness in a sea of expensively orange skin, black roots attached to stiff platinum tresses; I stood in a flowing dress and wooden platforms while the rest of the party heaved in bright spandexes and rhinestoned sandals —

— wait.



So much for a journalist being a vessel of truth.

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