I watched Sunday's edition of Sixty Minutes with great interest. And, at the part with little Adam's painted fingernails, great anxiety.
(My fellow cloggers, I tried for a couple of hours on Monday to get a nice screen-capture of said painted fingernails, but my computer just refused to cooperate. Go to malcontent; the b1tch b34t me to it.)
Why the anxiety? Oh, I suppose it's the many successfully-suppressed memories from my childhood. Like pretending to be a girl with my female cousin. (Heck, I think there were plenty of times I was playing at that while all alone.) Somewhere, deep in a family photo album, I seem to remember a picture.
Good Lord, why are there pictures?
Thankfully, there are no pictures of me and a female family friend (Andrea) playing with Barbies and getting caught by her older brother. "You don't think he'll tell his friends*, do you, Andrea?" I asked.
Other physical evidence exists. Like my handmade sock puppets. All female. With long yarn hair. There was a brunette, a blonde, and a redhead. (I hardly ever played with the redhead.) They're buried in a box somewhere.
Yep. I pretty much screamed gay from a very early age.
* many of whom would go on to be my future tormentors in high school