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- **Location: Eugene, OR
- **Mood: verbose and pretentious
- **Music: Monkey Gone to Heaven - The Pixies
Sometimes I wonder what I'm really looking for when ask "who am I?" In the jumbled pop-culture of postmodernism in which I was raised I find it easy to loose track of clear definitions, making the already difficult task of personal identity practically insurmountable. Homosexuality, I fear, has become a convenient placeholder for me; "I'm here, I'm queer, I'm choosing not to examine the existential implications of these statements." For awhile, being gay was enough, but when faced with the fundamental mysteries of my meaning, shouting "I'm gay" into the void of meaninglessness is even more futile than trying to explain to my Grandmother why I <3 cock. I guess what I'm saying is that my identity is more complicated then just any definition I could give to stave off the harsh words of those who claim I am mental invalid or curable sexual anomaly; that we homosexuals on the whole should not allow ourselves to define ourselves in a philosophically incomplete way simply because others with more complex (if slightly less coherent) epistemological systems declare our nonexistence (or define us in a way that is antithetical to our being). We must create a philosophic perspective that we can all feel is valid. Of course this is all just opinionated conjecture; what do I know?
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