My grandma was ecstatic when at 20 years of age I asked for a stuffed animal for Christmas.

She didn't know why I wanted it. I refused to explain.

All she knows of me is visually gleaned by her failing eyesight.

She found out I'm *homosexual* when I started painting my nails in high school.

She'll likely die before my appearance betrays my identity.

I hate estimating when my grandma will die.

Maybe she's right, and queers are monsters.

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