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From the Stonewall Inn to Boston’s own Legacy nightclub, these walls have sheltered ostracized homosexual men and other queer folks for generations.

From rom-coms to television dramas to fanfiction and celebrity relationships, these fabricated relationships feature the perfect concoction of romanticized agony with sporadic moments of idealized romance.

For the first time in my life, I am completely comfortable existing as a queer woman.

Taylor Swift had me singing about “feeling 22” at the age of 9 and humming about “a little kid with glasses in a twin-sized bed” even though I was also, in fact, a little kid with glasses in a twin-sized bed.

The first time I took myself on a date, I left after 20 minutes.

The world loves a story of an actor gone “too far” down the rabbit hole of their character’s psyche.

Disappointment is part of the experience. Rather than being let down, hate-watchers revel in the countless ways they can critique.

I never thought the medicine the doctor gave me to make me feel better would destroy me mentally.

I fantasized about a bare pantry. I figured I would be saving money and saving myself from calories if I never grocery shopped. I had full control over myself, my home, and my meals.