I Dislike Chocolate. Where's My Parade?

Sorry if I forgot to celebrate your identity enthusiastically enough.

“I’m abrosexual,” the headline boasted.

Of course I clicked the link. You would have clicked it, too. I mean, what was even happening here? Was the author attracted to her own bro? Or just any old bro? Was it all the bros? Abracadabra, maybe it had something to do with magicians! Call me a sucker for click-bait, but I sort of had to know.

This was the opener:

I had so, so many questions. Why do we have to give a name to every single sexual identity or category that deviates from “I was born with a [penis or vagina; please pick one] and I am exclusively attracted to people with a [the one you didn’t pick last time]”? What’s the difference between abrosexual and nonbinary and fluid and queer or questioning? Why do we have to get so… granular? Further, what did the friend say that was the obvious friendship-breaker? Was it the “I’ve never heard of it,” or the “I support you”? What was the perfectly worded reaction the outraged oversharer was secretly seeking? “That’s fantastic, Emma! I’ve always had a burning desire to know every minute detail of how you see yourself erotically, and the fact that your identity is fluid rather than static really challenges society’s heteronormative biases. Here, I made you a flag!”

To be clear, I am not judging or disrespecting Emma. It just physically would not be possible for me to care any less how she labels her carnal cravings.

Imagine me indignantly publishing the following exchange:

Me: I have to tell you something. I’m felinopolistic.

Friend [confused]: Um, okay.

Me: Judgy much? Jeez. It means I’m a person who mostly prefers cats to dogs. But not always. It depends on the specific cat and dog in question. Like if it’s an especially adorable and well-behaved dog and a feral, flea-infested cat with rotten teeth or something, I might go with the dog. Overall, though, it’s mostly cats. But it can change, is what I’m saying, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Friend [grasping]: Wow… I… I didn’t even know there was a name for that!

Me [shocked and offended]: And I had no idea you were zoophobic. Needless to say, we can’t be friends anymore.

Spend even a minute on the internet anymore and it’s clear that navel-gazing is the new national pastime. Google, for example, “turkey meatloaf recipe.” Of the 38,100,000 recipes available for your consideration, all but seven (*I checked) begin with a moving story of the author watching her mother (a classic beauty everyone always compared to Rita Hayworth; the author got her eyes and her flat feet) in her Lily Pulitzer apron mashing up ground beef and pork—Mom’s generation hadn’t yet discovered the magic of ground turkey, sigh—in the *same Pyrex bowl the author is going to use today* can I please just get the recipe? Why is there not a “skip to recipe” button? I do not need your life story, lady, I need to get meal on the table in less time than it takes for you to relive your fondest childhood meat pie memories, if it’s not too much trouble.

Before anyone calls me a hypocrite I realize I’m probably the OG navel-gazer, my job, my purpose, my passion, the source of my paychecks, is navel-gazing. I write to write—to entertain, to enlighten, to draw parallels and conclusions from the complexities of life to some universal experience—not to tell you how to bake a loaf-shaped poultry cake or convince you of some inherent bias you have. You don’t come to my Substack for facts or directions; you come for words and thoughts and ideas and laughs. There’s no “skip to the point” button for a reason. The words are the point.

But I digress. There I was, reading about poor Emma and her friend’s unacceptable reaction to her entirely unnecessary revelation and all I could think was who gives a flying duck? “Sadly,” Emma pouted in her piece, “this person isn’t the only one who has voiced their opinions on my abrosexuality—and I doubt they’ll be the last.”

So… here’s a thought, Em. Maybe people are voicing their opinions on your abrosexuality because you’re telling people about your abrosexuality. When you think about it, this is, quite literally, need-to-know information, and I cannot think of a single situation in which that need might manifest itself. Not one. And I’ve tried.

Suppose your super-straight, vanilla-looking, best cisgender couple friends secretly like putting each other on leashes and playing master-and-slave. What’s it to you? It’s only your business that they’re swinging from the rafters in crotchless chaps or sticking strictly to missionary-style monkey love if they’re rude enough to tell you about it. Am I wrong?

Imagine something—anything—that is universally loved… except maybe by you. It could be pizza or puppies or acts of kindness or the sound of laughter or Beyoncé. Mine’s chocolate. I’m just not a fan. But do you want to know what I do love? Black licorice. Do I need you to acknowledge my deviant sweet tooth? Do I deserve a flag or a parade or a month-long celebration in honor of it? Why on earth would I expect anyone to care? And how is who or what I fancy in the sack any different?

I’m sure you’ll LMK what you think in the comments. ;)