It was Valentine’s Day and Shmenn had gone back to the midwest to visit her parents. I know, I know, on the most romantic day of the year? I’m just kidding, we all know the most romantic day of the year is Thanksgiving — nothing quite like the alluring aroma of pumpkin spice and a full belly to get you going.
Shmenn decided that with love in the air and all that jazz it was time to come out to her parents… as a lesbian. Do you remember how a few posts back I had officially come out to her as transgender? Well, get ready for me to be shoved right back into that closet. Shmenn was ready to be an out and proud gay and I was mostly a doormat that didn’t want her to leave me so I hoped I could be okay with this. *spoiler alert, I wouldn’t be*
*Theme music and opening credits play*
I got to hear about the coming out via text message mostly, because Shmenn’s parents wouldn’t leave her alone long enough to call me because according to them I was the devil reincarnate. They were Catholic, and the pick and choosy kind Catholics, A.K.A. the worst kind, A.K.A. most Catholics. They told Shmenn how they had known all along that I was a terrible person, influence, human, etc. That my tattoos were atrocious, my short hair was bad…
…and that I was clearly not raised right. The only bright side to this coming out was that Shmenn’s dog threw up on her dad right in the middle of the drama, I couldn’t help but laugh when she relayed that detail.
Shmenn was headed back to Texas the next day and she was a mess. Her parents had told her that they had no interest in talking about me ever, and really had no interest in talking to her until she decided that her and I were no longer talking, or dating, or especially fucking (I don’t think they actually said that, but we all know that’s what they meant).
This was probably the beginning of the end of me and Shmenn, even if I didn’t want to admit it. I had dealt with terrible parents before… I mean Shmashley 1’s parents pretended I didn’t exist like Donald Trump pretends that Global Warming doesn’t exist and I survived that shit for 2 years. I never had to see these people, I couldn’t care less — but Shmenn cared deep down and it was going to eat at her slowly, like the slow and painful process that was that dude chewing his arm off in that one movie starring Shmames Shmanco (and presumably the real life one-armed dude who inspired that story). Yum, anyone else craving a turkey leg?
Smenn’s dad, let’s call him, Shmuy Shmieri, in case you forgot, he looks just like a certain Food Network Star — decided that he was going to be my new biggest fan and stalked all my social media. Welcome to the club, Shmuy, I’ve got quite a couple fan girls and boys you’ll have to share that internet stalker-dom with. (JK, I wouldn’t be propelled to D-List internet fame for about another year or so). He would send Shmenn emails every morning containing screenshots of my posts about her and what a nasty woman that made her (one of them read “I’m so happy to come home to my gf today” Nasty, N-A-S-T-Y, isn’t there a black eyed peas song about that?) Anyway, something tells me that he might be Donald Trump’s speech writer this year. Jeez, that’s my third Trump reference in this post, wonder why…oh yeah, GO VOTE AMERICA! DO YOUR CIVIC DUTY AND SAVE US FROM THAT ORANGE MONSTER.
*Hillary Clinton approved this message and this blog, we’re besties, I promise*
Anyways, back to our regularly scheduled programming — Shmenn’s dad got real good at the internets and stalking my shit, but no way was I going to censor myself to make him feel comfortable or sacrifice my growing follower count by making my instagram private. In all seriousness though, I do not believe in changing your own behavior to make someone more comfortable when they go looking for something to make themselves uncomfortable. Shmenn would get messages from ol’ Daddy-O talking about how we were throwing our heathenism in his face and all I could do was scoff and tell him to hold the phone. It’s not shoving anything in anyone’s face when they had to head to that little search bar on whatever social media they fancied and typed my name in. That’s their issue. That’s actually harassment. If he didn’t want to see me in real life, he wouldn’t go to my house and peek in my windows. And, better yet, if I didn’t want him seeing my shit in real life I could put a restraining order on him or block his phone number and rely on the long arm of the law to keep his creepy goldilocks lookin’ self away from me. (This same thing goes for anyone who I’ve ever blocked online — if you don’t want to see me, the internet makes it real easy, stop LOOKING).
Between the screenshots and the bible verses, things got to the point where we just stopped talking about Shmenn’s family and I actually encouraged her to keep those annoying little red notification bubbles on her email. Those emails don’t need read now, Shmenn, not now, not ever.
*Next week on Nobody Scissors, you might be reading my last blog entry ever if The Donald gets elected and all Queer people are removed of their rights to queer blogging and free expression*