Hello everyone. Are you still pissed off and freaked out by the state of our world? Do you wake up every day and have tiny panic attacks before you even get out of bed? Well, do I have some good news for you!
No! No, I don’t.
Maybe I am being a little dramatic, but where is that fucking asteroid? In the words of the ever-positive Layla Larue, “We are living in our last days!” Darkness and gloom fill my heart like a teenage emo first discovering Evanescence.
All of those apocalyptic TV shows and movies have always felt like escapist fiction. But now?
Now they feel like documentaries. I just wanna run away from everything, swinging my arms like they don’t have bones, just flopping around willy nilly.
I wanna listen to Annie Lennox’s song “Why” on repeat and stare pensively out of a raindrop-covered window. I wanna cry — not the blubbering, shoulder-shaking kind of cry, but a very still, mascara-streaked-wet-cheek kind of cry.
But I fucking can’t!
I have to be a beacon of love and light and uplift my community. I gotta pull everybody else out of the funk and overwhelming sadness they have been wallowing in. I have to shine like a beautiful fucking diamond to light the way for so many of the downtrodden.
am basically an angelic sponge sucking up all of your negativity and hate, so you can live. I mean truly live.
Oh shit! Sorry. I had the news on in the background, and it was apparently affecting my mood. I was also hangry. Now I have a Snickers and a better attitude.
Good morning beautiful people! Howthahellareya?
How am I? Glad you asked.
My birthday was a few days ago. I am officially in my 500s, and I don’t look a day over 499.
Truthfully, I am 53 years old, and it is time for an overhaul of my face. I need a facelift. My wrinkles are getting wrinkles. Botox has gone the way of my nieces and nephews and has just stopped working.
I do not want fillers. Y’all tell me all the time my head is big; why would I want it to look bigger? Maybe I should just piss off a bunch of bees and let them sting me to see if I like the results.
Plastic surgery is expensive. Is there a make-a-wish program for old drag queens? Fuck Disneyland, filet my face.
I should get Sarah McLachlan to sing a song and tell you that for the price of a cup of coffee, you can help an aged man in a dress achieve their dreams of not looking like foreskin with a wig. The late-night commercial will show a sad old drag queen wearing a wig cap, looking confused and lost as she applies eyeliner with shaky hands.
She smears her lipstick in frustration as she realizes that the tips from tonight’s show weren’t enough for the anesthesia option for her surgery. She will have to feel it all during the surgery she is getting in a dirty room behind an abandoned dry cleaner — in the same strip mall that her daddy used to take her to try on cha-cha heels when she was but a young and handsome fella. Promising Daddy not to tell Ma, cuz she didn’t think you had the talent to be a drag showgirl.
She let you know every day that the best there was ever gonna be for you is to be a backstage helper or a DJ or — worse — a back-up dancer. And not the good back-up dancer that stands a little behind the talent, but the chubby one with no real rhythm — the chubby one that is only there to help with the lifts because he has a strong back and a solid frame.
There is always a chubby one.
But you showed her didn’t ’cha! You were a real drag showgirl, with your own wigs and costumes with feathers, dangly earrings that made you feel like a slut. You had more lashes, face razors and tiaras than Honey Boo Boo’s entire inbred family.
You showed her! You once performed that song from The Greatest Showman for the president! It was the president of the Alan Cummins fan club, but a president no less.
You worked at bars, some that even had a stage. You made 50s of dollars and had drink tickets to spare. You partied with twinks, twunks, bears, chupacabras and even Dennis Rodman.
You had polaroids of yourself with the likes of Justin Guarini, Katy Perry’s make-up artist, Perez Hilton and even that guy that played RoboCop. Sure, he called for security, but you got your photo. That was really all that mattered.
You were a drag superstar, but you never got to rub it in Mama’s face. You never got to fan yourself with those drink tickets and polaroids as you smugly looked down on your mama’s tired face, because Mama died of the consumption back in ’08 — just two days before your big break.
You have never forgiven her for that. How dare she die before you got the chance to say, “I did it Mama! I’m a drag superstar! I showed you! I showed everyone!”
As you turn to walk away from her makeshift grave next to the Love’s Truckstop, you stop to check your lipstick. Before you can close your fur-lined clutch, a single drink ticket falls out and catches on the wind like that feather in Forrest Gump. You watch it climb up the thermals of the Texas heat, higher and higher until it is just a small dot of red in the sky, reminding you to buy some tampons for your butt.
The end.
Oh shit! That went off the rails, didn’t it?
Remember to always love more, bitch less and be fabulous! XOXO, Cassie Nov