I remember the day Mom said “stage IV metastatic,” so now I need a show with forty seasons.
When palm trees swing in the soft breeze, I remind myself that my body is not an orchestra, and the trees are not dancing for me.
I didn’t know—or think I knew—any visibly queer women, and watching these fictional women half-existing seemed both comforting and lonely.
At the time, I didn’t know I could be anything but a girl, a quiet Chinese American girl, cute and easy to ignore, but Kurama hinted at other possibilities.
The Roadshow is so kind, so simple, and so pure that you begin to wonder, “Could this even be faked?” When I visited the set in San Diego, I discovered—no, it can’t be faked.
I knew on a level the humor was cringeworthy, especially as a recently out gay boy facing heterosexist gender roles, but I didn’t care. I needed “Friends” to make our house feel less lonely and empty.