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Leon craig parallel hells5/21/2023 ![]() My exposure to depictions of lesbian relationships was limited to t.A.T.u.’s All The Things She Said, tabloid headlines and the script of Lost And Delirious which I found floating around online and read multiple times because I had no way of renting the film. ![]() I realised I was queer at the age of 11, back in 2003, a time when equal marriage was only legal in Denmark, the Netherlands and some provinces of Canada. It’s easier to be angry and scornful than it is to acknowledge your own loneliness. When you exist in a state of despair, each gesture of hope can feel like a cruel reproof. Other people’s displays of affection were particularly exasperating to me, each happy couple I saw pushing me further into an incoherent rage. ![]() As a teenager, I used to mark the occasion by wearing head-to-toe black and drinking cheap vodka mixed with Ribena concentrate. For many years I was a fully paid-up member of the anti-Valentine’s squad, muttering under my breath about how tacky it all was and how I wouldn’t be caught dead celebrating such a stupid holiday. Valentine’s haters are a select club – we recognise each other by our glowering faces from around mid-January onwards and our avoidance of the flower section of the supermarket, not to mention our determination to party the same weekend that all the committed couples will be murmuring sweet nothings over crème brûlée. ![]() The writer of Parallel Hells reflects on queering her perspective on the day dedicated to love BY LEON CRAIG, IMAGE BY MICHELLE LEMAN VIA PEXELS ![]()
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