You know, every time I go back to visit Texas, I have to ask myself - why?

Because: I hate L.A. so much that sometimes I forget how much I hate it there, silly.

I think, for once, my hatred of L.A. and my hatred of Texas are in near perfect equilibrium, which leaves me to either bolt for New York, run for the border, or end up somewhere in Arizona.

But it's already too dry here and my face would fall off.

So, here I am. Back in Cali-fro-nia and fully off my nut.

At least I think I'm beginning to understand what it is that I hate about Texas. I mean, besides all the ignorant, bastard redneck squirrel killers.

King of the Hill's Hank Hill best demonstrates it, I think - it's the whole, The Boy Ain't Right syndrome.

Meaning, anyone with a dream, other than buying a square house with a square yard and raising a square 2.5 unit family in a house surrounded by 2x4s is considered = a queer.

Not fitting nicely into that category, I am considered = a queer. I have cats and enjoy sleeping. Also, I'm not entirely opposed to the concept of work, though I will acknowledge that my idea of work is a hell of a lot less stinky, messy, and generally less hard than raising a fambly. And by hard I do not mean difficult, I mean...well, tedious. I like to spend at least 3 hours just reading and drinking coffee on the weekends; I do not enjoy housework. I also have a non-traditional pseudo-spouse who picks up after me, cooks for me, and washes my soiled thongs when I throw them on the floor, because I am an asshole, but I make up for it in other ways, such as by doing his website (badly) and not being completely hideous. But yes, eventually, I am going to die alone and go to hell, and my cats would, indeed, eat my face, if I hadn't already set their asses up with a trust fund (granted, that mainly consists of 2,000 lbs. of Fancy Feast in a safe deposit box in Iowa. It's a start.) And I'm okay with that, but in Texas, it really chafes their hide.

The thing about California is that it gives you the opportunity to reinvent yourself. You wanna be a sword-slinging, tightrope-walking, bad fake-English accent-having butt pirate?! Well, go right ahead, fancy pants. Knock yourself out, and your poofy shirt too.

Not so in Texas. At least, not without being asked repeatedly and directly, why? And told what you should do about it. Unsolicited advice everywhere you go, and probably at least one person per week will tell you what you really need is The Jesus, regardless of whether you already belong to another major world religion. They do not care about that, Satan-worshippers. Because Jesus loves all the little children and whores and pirates (although their first order of business, for some reason, is to tell you why you can NOT be any of those things). Hell, He can probably even un-queer you, while He is at it.

Yep. The boy ain't right.

So, here I am, being neither a boy, a pirate, nor queer (mostly), and my shirt ain't even all that poofy. Yet I am still deeply offended by the lack of celebration, or even respect, of differences in the deceptively pretty state to which I somehow had the misfortune of being born.

Oh yeah, it's probably the you-should-git-yerself-hitched-'n-Betty-Crockered-up-with-a-coupla-buns-in-the-oven thing, although anyone who really knows me probably doesn't think I should.

Besides, I love squirrels, I would kill to have a backyard full of 'em. And why am I living in a shit apartment when stupid rednecks who are blessed with houses and yards are trying to kill or relocate every raccoon, possum, squirrel, grub, etc. in a 3 mile radius? Because they are aging control freaks and that male pattern baldness is NOT a solar panel for a love machine, asshole. Why they don't just cram some Viagra pills up their butts and go beat off to Field and Stream in the shower while their Frito-eating wives are simultaneously painting their toenails Perky Christian Pink, complaining about their husbands on the phone to the in-laws, and plotting to kill them for the insurance money, I do not know.

Excuse me, but I think I need to go put on a rainbow unitard, dress up like a giant Schnoodle, and walk a tightrope while doing an interpretive dance expressing the innermost thoughts of a latent homosexual endangered limpet living in sin with a blue-green algae, go vegetarian (again), learn Mandarin, feng shui my shit apartment, balance my chakras, and perfect my "craft" now (even though I automatically hate people who say that). Because it is nice, just for once, to express a thought, idealized hope for positive change, or a damned human emotional feeling, that does not get shot to shit and stomped all over like so much dirty dog business on their otherwise pristine lawn by my Texas family for not fitting into their narrow realm of experience, for being so Californian.

Yep, this always happens when I go home. Damn you, Texas.

Damn you all to hell.