It’s okay to cry while doing this.
You may feel like masturbating twenty or thirty times a day during this period. And that’s . . . okay! Go right ahead. You deserve it. But never, ever, let the image of you-know-who slip into your head while you’re doing it. Think about your eighth-grade gym teacher. Think about the lawn boy. Watch One Tree Hill. Fantasize about anyone, ANYONE except your beloved ex-Flip Flop.
(It’s okay to cry while doing this, too.)
NOW THE CLEANSING RITUAL:
He may have broken your heart, but it’s time to reclaim your life. You are going to take control of your emotions. First, gather together all the little mementos of your time together! Yes! Each and every keep-sake! The souvenir bedpan! The empty bottle of pepper vodka! The pencil he chewed on! And the little wart you glued to his face! Now TOSS THEM INTO THE DUMPSTER!
Trust me! It’s for the best!
Next, the clothes! Yes! Make a pile of all the precious little outfits you wore when you were together! Then, tear them all up! Tear them to shreds! EGAD! ARE YOU SURE? Yes! Yes! And spare no costume, no getup, no snappy little suit! That includes the ocher and puce dress! The bubble wig! Zelda Fitzgerald! Preppy 3000! Yes, even the Vivienne Westwood pirate outfit! Rip it all to shreds! Be brutal! Destroy that dress! Obliterate those jeans! NOW, BRING OUT THE GARDENING SHEARS!
When you are through, it’s okay to collapse in a sweaty pile of tears and self-loathing.
Sleep it off. The worst is over.
V
DAY FIVE
Today you begin your journey back into the light.
To ready yourself, you will need to be relaxed and free of all tension.
I suggest you rent a couple of Care Bears movies. Sure!
Most people hate the Care Bears on principle. But then, most people hate me on principle—so I say to hell with people and their principles!
Pay them no mind!
Might I suggest Clan of the Care Bears? Oh, you’ll just love it.
Trust me: those perky little buggers can turn your whole day around.
Then? A new task. A confidence builder: Make a list of your strengths. Your selling points. All your most noble and majestic qualities. Here are mine:• I make a great Bundt cake.
• I can parallel park like a demon.
• I’m great at refolding maps.
• I can wiggle my ears.
• I arch a good brow.
• I do killer ’80s eye makeup.
• I know the complete scores of Rent and Hairspray.
• I lend an aura of quiet dignity to any gathering.
• I’m a people person.
Not exactly the stuff of the coming messiah, but it’s a start.
VI
Now for the most important part of your healing process:
Light a candle. Summon forth your most tranquil and positive energy.
Then when you are feeling at one with the goddess within, approach the slash heap and acknowledge what it represents to you. Acknowledge the loss you feel.
Shed a tear at the mess you’ve made! Go ahead! Look at that big old pile of rip-rot and snip-slop, and tell it how sorry you are. Apologize to each and every outfit that you destroyed.
Now, say a prayer of resurrection.
You are going to give these rags a brand-new life. Yes!
Pick through the saddest little snippets, one by one, and hold each one up to the light.
Really look at them.
You are going to bind these separate pieces together. You are going to build a unified SUPER-SUIT from these sullied, ripped-up memories.
Ask yourself: Could that be an armhole? Yes!
Could you get your head through there?
And if you wore that bit underneath something like . . .
Say . . .
THAT.
And belted it with THIS strappy glitter thing . . .
And, oh! that’s fab! That’s fierce, huh?
Now, if I could safety pin these two pieces together and tie it into a sort of sarong around my waist, and then RIP IT A LITTLE MORE here . . .
Yes! Yes! Keep going! More! More!
Loop it!
Twist it!
Let it flap in the wind!
Pin this to that; knot that there, firmly; rip this up to there.
Then . . .
Voilà!
Look at what you have created! A new look!
Yes, the scraps of clothes that were once ripped and shredded beyond recognition have found a new life when cobbled together. It’s a “patchwork punk” look. And in it you will be a glorious gutter princess. In fact, it’s a wilder, more daring look than anything you have ever worn before. Sliced up to here and slashed down to there, the overall effect is of a violent but fabulous young monster.
So you complete the look by painting yourself an angry, mutant green. It’s what any plucky heroine would do.
You are, after all, an angry She-Hulk! RAR!
And now you look in the mirror, and you like what you see. Yes!
You are a raging, ragged shock of a girl, and that feels good. Yes!
They tried to destroy you, but they didn’t succeed. Oh no! They tried to tear you down, but you refused to give in. For that, you will wear these ripped and ragged clothes! For that, you will SASHAY SHAWNTEE these shredded outfits! And they will be your BADGE OF COURAGE.
They will say to the world: “I SURVIVED AND I’M STRONGER FOR IT!”
And wearing the rags that misery made while wrapped in the shroud of your anguish, you have turned your self-loathing into something FABULOUS, and it feels good. It feels right.
You are owning your martyrdom, and defying it.
You stand tall on the rock of righteous fury and pump your fists in the air.
“I will show the world what has been done to me,” you scream. “From this day forth, I wear these rags as a reminder to all the haters in the world. For every faggot who has suffered, let me bind your wounds with my rags. For all the trannies out there who haven’t yet found their strength, let them tether themselves to me!”
You vow: “I wear it FOR THEM! And whenever I wear this freakish garb, I will strike fear into the hearts and minds of redneck rich kids everywhere!
“Yes, they shall learn to fear my holey, ragged shadow!
“FOR I AM SUPERFREAK!”
And the gods applaud.
You have moved into the light, and your healing has begun.
So this is it.
The BIG BOOM!
REBIRTH!
A LIGHT SHINES DOWN!
THERE IT IS!
LOOK UPON THE GLORY!
GAZE UPON MY SUPERNATURAL BEAUTY!
REJOICE! THROW FLOWERS!
LET THE RAPTURE BEGIN!
GIZZLE-GAZZLE! DIZZLE-DAZZLE!
BOW DOWN!
FOR I AM SUPERFREAK!
BOOM! KER-PLOW!
(And the world sings of salvation.)
VII
I am SUPERFREAK!
Watch me go! Check me out!
A whole new world! A whole new me!
And—what’s this?
A plan!
A reason to be!
And a powerful new alter ego!
It’s TOO DIVINE!
Let the dark clouds pass!
I’m livin’ on the edge! Dancing on the lip of a volcano!
No longer afraid. No longer living a half-life!
Nothing can hold me down.
VIII
I am Superfreak.
Defender of girly-boys, scourge of flat-faced homophobes everywhere.
Wrapped in the purple cloak of midnight.
I come and go undetected.
My every move whisper quick!
A wig on the wind!
I move about free from glaring eyes. Hidden in shadow. Covered in darkness.
A creature of the night. Prowling. Growling. Ready to pounce. WATCH OUT!
IX
Then a flare. A flash. A crashing
new idea.
A ray of light.
A dawning realization.
If, as SUPERFREAK, I’m all powerful . . .
And I’m finally in control . . .
If it’s up to me . . .
Then. Well . . .
And I knew what I had to do.
I knew why I was put here in this godforsaken red state.
The reason for my newfound strength.
What my special purpose was.
I was the light of dawn.
I was the blazer of trails.
I was given this newfound strength to right wrongs and build a better future.
Suddenly, I understood: With absolute freedom comes absolute responsibility.
And so I had to go back.
Because, to be truly free, you can’t be running from anything, or tied to what-ifs. Or have regrets.
Ironic, isn’t it, that at the moment when I could do anything, when the world held limitless possibilities, I saw only responsibility?
It took a million choices to show me I had just one.
Sure, I could keep running, and never look back. But then I would never know how it all turned out, if I had what it takes to survive in that world, or possibly even triumph.
X
AND SO IT’S . . .
Once more into the swamp, dear friends. Once more!
Or you might as well fold yourself back into the sofa and wait for death!
This vacation, this brief respite, has been lovely, no doubt—doing nothing, lying back, indulging the goddess for three whole days. It’s been rejuvenating, hasn’t it? It’s brought you back to yourself.
But don’t you hear? The blasts of war? The call to honor?
It’s time to go back to battle once more, and this time, to prevail!
Be strong now, Billy! You have a new mission! Rise up from the ashes of your old self! You are a new species of drag queen, like nothing the world has ever seen before! Look at your sinewy magnificence! Feel this newfound courage surging through your body!
When the alarm is sounded, you must set aside all that is gentle and good in your nature. You must answer your destiny in the guise of the great and fierce drag queen warrior you know you can be!
Yes! You are a tough little queen! Stronger than you knew! You are able to absorb the blows that life keeps giving you! Yes! You are a righteous and mighty She-Hulk!
Now get mad!
Look mean! Real mean!
Give your enemies the hairy eyeball! Stare them down! Look directly into their souls!
Frown! Ferociously! Now grit your teeth! Pull back those glittering ruby lips! Let’s see those fangs! Those flesh-eating incisors! Those bone-crunching molars!
Breathe in and out! Let those nostrils flare! Stretch ’em wide!
Pull yourself up to your full queenly height! Rise higher! You are a goddess! A Superfreak! An artist! An iconoclast!
Others have come before you—proud warriors, beautiful she-males. Say their names! RUPAUL! BOY GEORGE! They are legend! PETE BURNS! LEIGH BOWERY! Sister soldiers! DIVINE! SYLVESTER! Call upon their strength and styling skills! HOLLY WOODLAWN! CANDY DARLING!
Rise up now—for all the countless freaks before you who lost, who suffered, and who died at the hands of redneck bigots. And for all those who continue to fight, be a beacon of light in their darkness!
Come on, then. Now is not the time to shirk, to shrink, to fade into the mists of morning.
Let me see the passion in your eyes!
Now, onward, ever onward—to Eisenhower, ho!
GOD SAVE THE SUPERFREAK!
ALL HAIL SUPERFREAK!
XI
BUT FIRST: As a new superhero, I knew that I needed a sidekick.
And if I wanted to go back to the academy, I knew that I’d need some help and protection.
So, my choice was obvious.
Yes.
Why, Blah Blah Blah, of course! My first friend!
Why, she’d be perfect! I’ve always considered her a rhinestone in the rough!
And I sort of owed it to her, don’t you think?
Poor Blah Blah Blah.
No really.
Bless her little blank heart.
Can we all agree that I’ve been somewhat less than committed to the relationship? That as far as friends go, I rate only slightly better than a Furby? I mean, I’ve known her for how many months now, and I still have yet to learn her name? Could I be any more odious?
Hey, have I ever even told you what she looks like?
No?
(I’m such a stain.)
That’s where we’ll start, then.
She looks like Harriet the Spy. Yes, yes. One of those hamster-faced girls with bright, inquisitive eyes, who are pretty in spite of themselves. And I mean that in the sweetest way possible. You know, the kind of girl you always think is a bit pudgy, but one day discover it was just the cowl-neck sweaters? And the sexless, full prairie skirts?
And here’s something that helps lift her out of character sketch limbo:
Originally, she’s from Boston, and when she’s not whispering, her voice is a great and glorious East Coast honk—all flattened a’s and nasal e’s. You didn’t know that, did you? Yes, in real life she sounds like an angry teamster or a lovesick sea lion.
THAT explains all the whispering and the scurrying about, and the way she always looks like she’s dodging imaginary pigeons, see? It’s a way to camouflage herself from the various cat cliques who prowl the halls looking for outsiders to eat for lunch.
See, she’s an outsider, just like me.
Perfect sidekick material.
But how could I get in touch with her if I still didn’t know her name? I couldn’t very well call 4-1-1. I couldn’t ask the school office. (“She’s a girl, maybe sixteen or seventeen, with brown hair, medium length. No, I don’t know her name. But it sounds like . . .”)
Then, of course! D’OH!
I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of it before!
Where was it?
Searching, searching . . .
Ah, there it was! On the fertility altar!
MY OLD EISENHOWER YEARBOOK!
AND LO! THE ANSWERS I’D BEEN SEEKING WERE AT HAND!
Finally! The great mystery was about to be solved!
I felt like I was about to enter the tomb of King Tut for the first time.
Somewhere on these pages was a picture with a name underneath it. That picture would be of the mysterious BLAH BLAH BLAH, of course. And the name below? Anybody’s guess.
And here we go!
I began flipping through the pages of the sophomore class.
Not there.
Or there.
Page after page. Nothing.
There were pictures of Bib and Lynnette and Flip (awww) and Baba and Bo-Bo and Tiff and Kristin and on and on . . .
AND STILL NOTHING!
MORE NOTH—
Wait, wait.
There! Stop!
Was it . . . ?
Yes! Finally. There it was. Plain as the nose on my face. Her name was . . .
DEEP BREATH . . .
I closed my eyes, steadied my hands, EXHALED . . .
And looked down at the page.
OH. MY. GOD.
NO.
IT CAN’T BE!
IT MUST BE A TYPO.
SOME SORT OF MISTAKE.
Look. There. Written in firm block letters:
MARY JANE MCAFFERTY
Huh?
MARY JANE MCAFFERTY? What in the hell was THAT? Some kind of JOKE? Her name was Mary Jane McAfferty? How the hell did I hear Blah Blah Blah over and over again? Why, it wasn’t even close! You couldn’t slur a name like Mary Jane McAfferty. You couldn’t be lazy or mush-mouthed about it. It was all fricatives! Nothing but crackle and spit!
Here, all this time I thought that her name would turn out to be something like Blondie Blahnik or Blossom Blodgett, and that I would have been in the right general area, or at least on the same map. BUT
THIS? THIS?
It’s too crazy!
(Looks again at yearbook and shakes head.)
MARY JANE MCAFFERTY.
I’ll be ding-donged.
If that wasn’t the most goddamned thing.
You just NEVER CAN TELL.
About ANYTHING.
XII
Tracking down her number was easy, once I had a name. (Apparently that’s how it works.)
I called, and within twenty minutes the former Blah Blah Blah was banging on my hall door. “Oh, BILLY! BILLY!” she honked, and threw herself into my arms.
“MARY JANE, my liebling, how ARE you?”
“Wonderful, wonderful. Wicked pad, my dear!”
“Thanks. I’ll give you the grand tour later. I love your shoes, by the way.”
“Miu Miu.”
“Well they are TOO TOO . . . !”
We chatted amiably about this and that for a couple minutes more before she finally screamed: “SO TELL ME, ALREADY, WHAT THIS BIG NEWS IS! You said on the phone that you wanted to bring me up to speed. You can’t tease me like this, and not follow through! I’m LACTATING, I’m so excited!”
“Okay, okay. Got a few minutes, though? Can I tell you the whole story? It all goes back to that coma, remember . . .”
So I sat her down and I told her everything—from the coma to the kiss to my Billy Scissorhands breakdown. And because I actually KNEW HER NAME, I used it every chance I could. So this is pretty much how the conversation went:
“So then, MARY JANE, Flip said . . .”
“NO WAY!”
“It’s true, MARY JANE! So, I said to him . . .”
Freak Show Page 16