When The Universe Says “Hold My Beer”

It’s funny how sometimes, even when you’re not asking the universe for help, the universe still looks you dead in the eye, cracks a grin, and says, “Here, hold my beer.” Then it grabs the wheel and takes you for a ride.

I’ve made no secret of my recent healthcare woes. I’ve written about them plenty. Probably too much. You’re likely sick of hearing about it. Apparently, the universe was too.

So instead of more rage-writing about bureaucracy and stalled MRIs, I found myself doing something else entirely today: writing queer short stories. Not one. Two. And honestly? I’m fucking thrilled about them.

I didn’t go looking to write queer-centric fiction today. It just… happened. And when that happens, when nothing feels forced, when the words come pouring out faster than you can second-guess them, you don’t fucking argue. You just get out of the way and let the story do what it needs to do.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, a vision snapped into focus: a short story collection. Down the road. Not rushed. Not yet. Before any of that, each of these stories needs to find its own home. They need to live in the world first, published, read, tested. Credibility matters. The work deserves that.

So far, the lineup looks like this:

• a torrid, messy queer affair that ends tragically

• a story about the death-by-a-thousand-cuts of constant misgendering

• one about the commercialization and co-option of Pride

• and another still forming about that universal moment, straight or queer, where you lean in for a kiss not knowing if the feelings are shared, and you risk it anyway

Apparently, the universe decided today was about leaning into queerness. I didn’t resist.

I love days like this, the kind where nothing feels performative, where creation feels necessary instead of strategic. I wasn’t doing anything for Christmas. No plans. No agenda.

Just me, a keyboard, and a really damn good day of writing.