author: alex, author: alex n, fiction, LGBT+

Small: A Queer Love Story

Short fiction from Alex, our Contributing Editor, exploring the stagnancy of mid-twenties life and the change that can be made in a single day by a single enigmatic stranger.

Ripples from raindrops spread over the surface of the ocean, and bounced off the umbrella in my hand. The air smelled of salt and seaweed. I shivered and adjusted my scarf. Checked my phone, but the buzz just told me I should have charged it hours ago. Long grass whipped around in the wind that buffeted my body as I stood still. My hands shook, and I closed my eyes.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Tears fell when I stopped holding back. I turned away from where the water met the horizon, and walked towards the town.

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five young gay men at a pride celebration
author: alex n, film, LGBT+, pop culture, reccomendation, recommendation, review

Does the Perfect Gay Rom-Com Exist?

Boshemia columnist Alex Nolan is on a quest to find the perfect gay romcom.

I love classic romcoms. Give me every iteration of Julia Roberts, Jennifer Lopez, Drew Barrymore and Kate Hudson you can and I’ll still eat it up. Those films are great because they make you feel good. Queer romances, however, tend to be on the depressing side. Someone dies or goes through something horrific, and while there’s a place for these stories, it can be a slog. So where are the fun light-hearted flicks? Do they exist? I’m gonna take a dive into Netflix/my catalogue of ancient DVDs and see whether I can dig up a good old gay movie that’s gonna make you smile.

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author: alex n, mental health, Personal Essay

Sometimes, I Don’t Feel Anything

cw; mental health, depression

Two paper bags on my floor, several errant socks and a pile of clothes at the end of the bed (and spilling out of the washing basket). Dinner was a prepacked sandwich and two bars of chocolate. I think it’s been over a month since I called home. It’s been worse than this. At least this I could clean up in half an hour, or less. No mounds of orange plastic bags or infestations of flies. Chemical air freshener over the smell of rot. Not this time, at least.

No one knows how bad it got. I can’t find a way to talk about it that makes sense, and the words come out like I’m spitting wet hair. I’ve deleted and rewritten these sentences several times already because I feel like I’m admitting a terrible a secret, that people will view me differently. That they will see me as something wrong. Or that my words will be trite, because they add nothing to the conversation. My intention isn’t to be dramatic, or imply that I’m unique in how I feel. Just to articulate something difficult.

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