The thing about being a writer is that you look at the world as an endless treasure trove of material for stories. But sometimes, something so horrific happens that it stops you in your tracks.
I’m on my way home for Thanksgiving. I haven’t been to Texas in 18 months. I can’t wait to be home. At the same time, this is the same state that took my rights away and whose politicians believe I shouldn’t be able to have a public life. They think I’m a pedophile simply for being.
My blood runs cold at the thought of the end game for these sick, hateful people. Will there be another Kristallnacht, another night where the masks come completely off and people kill us? Will it be at a Pride parade?
After Colorado, I have no words left. All I have is fear and tears for now.