It has been a week since San Francisco Pride. Have I fully recovered? No: my throat is still thrashed, my skin is peeling, and I am now just doing laundry. I am a mess — a happy mess. It was my second SF Pride and sensory overload will always be a barrier for me. There are way too many beautiful queers in the Bay and I was in a constant state of thirst and whiplash. Not that it was a one-way thirst street: I had THIRTEEN Tinder matches in less than FORTY minutes with my settings omitting straight, cis men. The Bay did wonders for my ego. Friday night: UHAUL @ Hawthorn There is something magical about being in a space that is mostly comprised of ethnically diverse queer butches, femmes, and every one in between. Attractive folx, good friends, equally good music, a little bit of liquid courage, and a lottle bit of eye-fucking makes memories and evokes gushy gay feelings that I will hold on to for as long as possible. Pluses: got a phone number from a cutie. Minuses: Jenna say...