Break Glass For Brain: REID #220

Feeling beautifipa

Dec 17, 2024

11 hours later… and zero likes — this is why I do it!

SHORT:

We may be a terrible country
in a terrible world
but the deli I’m at
has drawn little faces and arms and legs onto the paninis on their panini menu
so it looks like the paninis are dancing.

MEDIUM:

I went on a run this evening and feel less like I want the earth to spin off its access and for all of us to go flying off the surface. Then I attended my dear friend Lily’s solo show and they “held curtain” for ten minutes so I could get a quesadilla from the taco truck1 outside.

My hair was soaking wet the entire time. Normally, this would drive me insane (I hate wet2), but I’ve decided to go “water off a duck’s back mode” this week3.

LONG:

After Lily’s show, she asked for feedback, and I said, “I love how it’s your brain on display, but right now it feels like the brain is behind a pane of glass. I’d love it if, in the next version, the brain felt completely out in the open… exposed.”

Hope that helped4! 🫡 🙏 👍🏻

During the show I kept thinking about how lucky I am to have people in my life who carve out time to write things down, rehearse them, step onstage, and share themselves with the world (even though, most of the time, nobody is asking them to).

I love watching and listening to my friends do their stuff. It’s so much better than scrolling Twitter.

That said, I do still have Twitter, if only to remind me of things like the time I smashed “follow” on the guy who played Lady Gaga’s driver in A Star Is Born (and then dressed up as him for Halloween).

The other day, I scrolled past a notification that he was “going live” on the app and had no idea who he was. A quick Google brought it all flooding back. Did I unfollow? No. Did I tune into the live? Also no.

I look forward to repeating this exact experience in 2–3 years. Maybe months.

…What else? It’s the anniversary of the gay dead Santa event I worked in 2019—one of my fondest Christmas memories.

For the new Reiders: I once worked the door at a 700-person Christmas party where gay Santa—and everyone else—had six-pack abs.

My friend Mark offered me the gig. “It’s my office Christmas party,” he said. “You’ll make, like, a hundred bucks.” I pictured tech guys in ugly sweaters eating grocery store cookies. Instead, I walked into a cathedral packed with 400 twinks, half of whom were stripping down to their underwear while the other half painted candy cane erections onto their perfect bodies.

Santa was off in the corner, putting on his beard—and that was the entire costume. I clutched the straps of my backpack and looked down at my dorky outfit like, fml.

Turns out, Mark works for two very famous gay socialites, and this was not a quaint office party. It was a full-blown rager. The theme? Santa’s funeral.

A sexy snowman wept theatrically on a rented hearse. Guests lined up to “offer their condolences,” which mostly involved leaning into the hearse to ogle six-pack Santa. Inside, a memorial slideshow of ripped Mr. Claus played on a loop: Santa at the beach, Santa at the pool, Santa shirtless at the beach, Santa shirtless at the pool.

At one point, Santa was ceremoniously carried from the hearse into the church, displayed in an open casket for photo ops, and then rose from the dead to join the candy cane erection dancers.

They stationed me at the door, where a Gregorian chant played non-stop. By the end of the night, I could hum every note.

The only other AFAB person in attendance: Jennifer Coolidge.

Anyone else go through something like this? Comment down below.