The Queerest [🗸]

glitter works for evelyn perez

I've been to nothing short of a million studios.

My anxiety keeps bubbling to the surface, and I'm painfully unsure of what to do with my useless ass.

Every studio I walk into doesn't feel right.

I drive over to Heartbeat Studio, Palace Studio, 35th Street Dance. I wander from place to place, pulling into parking lots, from as close as a couple miles from my neighborhood to the bigger city. 

I also get about five fucking parking tickets like the dumbass I am.

When Mom sees them, there's no doubt that I'll be six feet under by tomorrow.

Setting all that aside, I step into what feels like thousands of studios—when in reality it's probably been about seven— and still never feel that spark, that draw.

Some of them are insanely expensive and I'm broke as hell, other don't seem to fit. Too frilly, too cold, too uncomfortable.

I spend the entire day driving, air wisping through my hair as I lower my windows and blast music from the speakers, earning a couple of middle fingers from drivers in passing. 

Dad would've known the right place.

He was intuitive like that, just knew when something was right, when something fit. But I can't afford to think about Dad. Not when I'm probably the last fucking thing on his mind.

So, I shake the thought away, shades slipping down the bridge of my nose. I don't find a place, don't find just the right thing to have colleges give me a second glance.

I don't find shit.

Really, the only thing that's keeping me from completely losing my shit is the paint job I did on my motorcycle. With Soren Choi and Damien Cortez's help, I managed to pull off a look that deadass elicits tears from my eyes and emotion from my cold, cold heart whenever I lay eyes on the design.

A literal fucking masterpiece.

Who knew that Damien Cortez was a wizard with aero-spray and paint? My lips twitch slightly. And Soren Choi can sketch out a layout design in a span of five minutes.