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Slash Fiction Will Rot Your Brain
On the floor next to my desk, I have a large plastic canister decorated with a print of gingerbread houses and cookies. It was designed to hold festive food, but it lost its lid before I acquired it, and I use it as a wastebasket.
Today I was thinking about painting it to look less, well, tacky. That led me to really look at it. I don't know if I'd never looked at it closely before or if it had simply been a long time, but my first thought today was a new one: "Look, gay gingerbread men!"
Yes, my wastebasket is adorned with gay gingerbread men. Slash fiction will rot your brain, folks.
(There are plenty of other possibilities, of course. Butch-for-butch gingerbread lesbians. Gingerbread men with their gingerbread-gender nonconforming gingerbread girlfriends. Pairs of masc gingerbread enbies. Whatever. But to me, they were gay gingerbread men.)
Today I was thinking about painting it to look less, well, tacky. That led me to really look at it. I don't know if I'd never looked at it closely before or if it had simply been a long time, but my first thought today was a new one: "Look, gay gingerbread men!"
Yes, my wastebasket is adorned with gay gingerbread men. Slash fiction will rot your brain, folks.
(There are plenty of other possibilities, of course. Butch-for-butch gingerbread lesbians. Gingerbread men with their gingerbread-gender nonconforming gingerbread girlfriends. Pairs of masc gingerbread enbies. Whatever. But to me, they were gay gingerbread men.)
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