In every young queer’s life, there comes a choice: join the legions fighting against the masc shortage or develop your own personality! I had believed myself to be a leader, a woman making her own path in this world! Until the sickening truth fell unto me.
You see, when two same-gendered individuals live together, a balance must be struck. There can’t be two femmes, two mascs, two twinks, two otters, two bears. The gay agenda does not allow such generosities! With this in mind, I knew a crossroad would eventually find me.
I moved into my new apartment off campus, hope filling my heart and spirit — but I would soon learn the true weight of my foolishness. Problems began to arise almost instantaneously. Cockroaches shimmed out from the hiding places within the drains, a thick smell of cigars clung to the walls, food and belongings from tenants-past littered the hallways: what were two girls to do?
The gender imbalance quickly sunk in. Who was to take out the trash? Clean the dishes? Call the landlord? Am I the housewife or the business man?
My roommate’s hybrid work schedule left me with hours alone in the home. Should I make a roast dinner? Do I need to invest in a lace nightgown to wear while greeting her from a long day of work? Questions swirled endlessly.
I leapt from my paralysis, where I had been sitting at the foot of her bed, running to the bathroom to gather cleaning supplies. My hand reached out to grasp the doorknob, pulling once. The metal handle slid against the frame, but made no attempt to open any such door. Gazing down, I pulled once more. The object spun endlessly, yet ineffectively.
Peering closer I noticed a loosened screw. Before I could ponder my situation any longer a thought struck me. I ran to my closet, rustling through boxes of unorganized wares. My prize quickly rose to the top, a set of Amazon Basics™ screwdrivers.
It was like another spirit had overtaken me, I didn’t pause for a second. The right size head immediately screwed into the base seemingly autonomous from my own movements. In seconds I had raced back to the offending door, fixing the issue seamlessly.
My path - newly forged. I could be THE butch lesbian! The one to solve all our issues, a dam to the rushing waters of our apartmental confusion.
No, I don't need to read the definition of “butch” or understand any historical or social context. I can create my own, entirely in a vacuum without being offensive at all! I am the only butch that matters, and all it took was one loose doorknob!