So, as I was standing, sweating like wild, at the Indigo Girls concert last night, I began drafting a letter to lesbians... yes, I was judging them, but only in the way I judge everyone, including myself. I heart the women who love women, and have wonderful Lesbo friends, so hopefully, I won't be offending you. And, if I do... I apologize.
Dear teeny tiny lesbian in a large men's white tshirt, why do you dance in a way that makes me concerned that you have a medical condition?
Dear many lesbians in general, why do you wear scrunchi's and where do you purchase them? Did you come out in 1985 and therefore quit trying to progress with the "norm"? Perhaps the indigo girls should put scrunchi's on their website? I think it would be a huge seller. I'll market this idea to them.
Dear committed Indigo Girls lovers... I know that this is an event for you. I know that your whole heart is poured into singing Power of Two. I know that you must close your eyes and wave your hands as if you are a pentecostal having a moment with the Big G. I know that you have a cig in one hand and a miller light tallboy in the other, but do not judge me as being less than you because I am drinking Amstel Light and have a rinestoned bobby pin in my hair. I am just as committed to the Girls as you I even make wavy hand signs on Closer to Fine. Note, however, I do not suddenly gain an urge to dance and bump into people because I'm bouncing around with my girlfriend.
Dear new friend I made in line at the porta potty, were you hitting on me or were you just being nice and really did like my skirt? If you were hitting on me, thanks! It makes me feel appreciated. I have no ability to notice when women are hitting on me. I get confused. In a lesbian relationship, would I be more masculine or feminine? who knows.
Dear lesby mullet women, do you all get your hair cut at the same place? Or, do you still have your Cosmo from 1985 before you came out and you just take in pictures of that to the stylist?
I'm sure that more things will come to me. I was amzed by the number of chaco's, men's plaid shorts, wife beeters, and ugly hats. Kudo's to you.
In closing, the concert was ah-mazing though ungodly hot.
The overly straight girl, who often wears pink doesn't ever want people to question her gender, who loves the Girls, who was concerned about her eyemakeup smearing and if you could see my underpants through my orange skirt.
Closer I am to fine.