Kalah Allen

Yeah, I change my own oil. And I painted my house. I am not gay. It’s that I’m cheap. And I told you that. Not just once. Cripes, the pressure you put on me to go out clubbing with your little friends. Finally I relent, to show you my mind was open. I agree to go out with “the girls,” but under the stipulation that I am not a lesbian. I go to be social. I’m not entertained by women dressed like men lip-syncing Johnny Cash and Elvis. I try to keep up, even buy all your friends a round of drinks. So how am I paid back? You dump me at the bar when you find a date. I guess I didn’t fit in. I tried, but I told you I wasn’t gay. The cab ride home was horrible. Am I married? What type of men do I like? So, I know how much you love your “classic” car. And I know how you must have felt when you found an empty sugar bag near your gas tank. You didn’t believe me when I told you I wasn’t into women, and you didn’t believe me when I told you I didn’t put sugar in your gas tank. It was so funny watching you have your car towed to get the fuel tank pumped out, even though—as I told you—I didn’t put sugar in the tank.—Anonymous