Dad over here wanted to have a talk with me. You know. A gay talk.
Personally, I despise interactions with my parents. I mean, really, they don't need me after the first thirty seconds, because after that I've said everything significant, and all that follows comprises entirely of them trying to forget it.
Luckily, this time around, my mom forewarned me.
This gave me time to prepare my argument.
In the end, though, I realized that this would be futile. Any argument, be it valid or otherwise, is lost on my parents somewhere between the ear and the brain.
So, instead of giving them the chance to actually argue, I decided to write a definitively unarguable note. This note listed responses to the disappointingly predictable parental questions that my dad was bound to ask me, in hopes that this would answer most of his questions and avert one of those aforementioned "discussions".
This note contained:
Reassurances that I won't "spout out" about it, and the mere fact that they thought they had to tell me not to was an insult to my intelligence.
A warning to, in further discussions, avoid saying things more than once, and that monotonous transparental reiterations affected nothing except my hearing.
Repeated assurances that I would "keep an open mind" about the thing, even though I have been for the last three years, and that I realized that they were only concerned for my safety.
And a whole bunch of other, minor things.
He wrote back. He gave me:
Warnings not to "spout out" about it.
Countless monotonous, transparental reiterations.
Advice to "keep an open mind" about the thing, because, apparently, the last three years wasn't good enough. He also told me about how much they were just looking out for my safety.
The minor things were just all contradicted.
And, oh yes, he expressed wishes for a discussion.
Gee, thanks for listening to me, pop.