Abstract
Oh, I am sorry. I didn’t see you there. Apologies. Here, come a little closer and settle into that chair. Comfy, eh? Okay. I have such a story to tell you. There is drama, death, disease, and a whole lot of sex. There is comedy too, but I would be remiss not to warn you that the humor is dark and dry; something’s not quite right about the humorous scenes you’re about to see. There once was a boy named Andrew and he, like, absolutely, like, hated himself. His father was an abusive drunk who hit his wife and kids; his mother that he cared for was a disabled narcoleptic in constant pain; he had two siblings that flew the nest and left him alone; and he was a closeted monster. Not a Rawr-like monster; rather, he was a gay boy raised in a rural Texas town which constantly reminded him how he was going to Hell. Hell, he thought, must be such a party because everyone seems to be going there. He escaped that town eight years ago and came out as fabulous five years ago. The story you are about to read is his journey in processing twenty-five years of self-hate through performative ceramic art. He is still looking for love and acceptance – or rather, accepting that he has a right to love. But, let me just tell you up front that love is something he gives away frequently and he doesn’t expect immediate repayment. He wants you to feel the love he never had. He wants you to stop being silent and start caring. He does not want you to be like him…unless we are at this like wicked party somewhere down South. So, shall we?