I like you because you were mad. And you're pretty. And pretty sane for a mad person.
She was standing in the airport of Copenhagen, staring at a doorway, trying to figure out if it was (a) a bathroom and (b) what kind of bathroom it was. The door merely said H. Was she an H? Was H "hers"? It could just as easily be "his". Or "Helicopter Room: Not a Bathroom at All
She wasn't only gay, she was a gay elf.
A pause while my mother made high-pitched sisterly devotions of gratitude.
Some nutter's gone and pulled a Jack the Ripper.
It was clearly one of those mornings when I was particularly American.