I hosted a reunion fête for my oldest friends in the world—the ones who used to accompany me as a twelve-year-old girl dressed in drag parading around the local video store on Friday nights banging on tambourines to attract awkward attention. Our nostalgic slumber party was upgraded from our middle school days of Toll House cookies and prank phone calls, by prosecco and a trip to a typically Boston, typically preppy bar.

But in the end, we still stayed up until 5 am, watching a VHS tape of our 8th grade musical, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat (quite possibly the tranniest musical of all time). I guess the only difference was that this time we did not pee in our pants from laughing too much. And this time we had a lot more to say about our various experiences with mimbos and wankers. When my mother asked, “Do any of you girls have someone special in your life?” my friend responded, “Well, I have a boyfriend, but he’s not that special.”

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