We used to find comfort in the absurdity of how we met.

I was 19 and you were 18, both of us still learning the ways of the world. We had first met on a dating website, the summer right before your freshman year of college.

The wounds of my first breakup were still fresh, but we hadn’t talked about anything that romantic anyway. There was certainly an attraction, at least on my part, but we simply explored our mutual interests.

When the semester finally started up, I reached out and asked if you would like to meet, have me show you around campus. It was a purely friendly gesture, but you shied away.

Ten minutes later, I noticed you had blocked me.

This is a cycle I’ve become familiar with over the years. Instead of having the balls to just say “I don’t actually plan to meet,” gay men have the tendency to ghost. But to younger me, this was a fresh new wound. I had to have done something very, very wrong for you to do this to me. Why else would you completely close off all communication between us?

I beat myself up a lot during that following month.

We had a brief encounter at some queer meetup at a coffee house ran by a Methodist church. I have rarely felt more out of place. We didn’t speak to each other, just the people around us. I felt guilty for being there. I never wanted to go to another queer event on campus knowing you might also attend.

Eventually, you reached back out over Facebook, tried to explain it all away. A close friend of yours had gone through a traumatic experience and you couldn’t deal with all the people asking for your attention.

Oh, and my unkempt beard apparently scared you away…

The whole thing stung, but I kind of enjoyed the absurdity of it all. This would be a funny story I could tell years later if anything actually happened between us.

You finally let me show you around. We grabbed some awful food at Fat Sandwich, where I raved about Sufjan Stevens and a dozen other artists you hadn’t yet discovered. You were also appalled by the fact I had spent the night before playing a card game called Kittens in a Blender. Really, this was about as romantic as any first date could go, right?

For the longest time, this was a happy memory. Two awkward fools fumbling all the first moves yet still finding love with each other. You would joke about how embarrassing it would be to explain to our kids how we met, and it naturally came up at the wedding. It was as if you were saying, “And look. I almost blocked the love of my life before we even really met. How silly of me.”

If we could make it after all that, who couldn’t work out their differences and find true love?

But now all I can think is, wow. We really thought we were going to have a family to share this story with? We honestly thought this would be a forever thing?

So I guess meet cutes are only cute when everything ends happily.

Continuing this project will be a bit difficult without first acknowledging the elephant in the room – though perhaps it is a boar in the case of this particular author.

Dear reader, I am a big gay furry. This would likely be a niche detail that doesn’t really say much about my life that could have gone unspoken, but it’s going to come up…a fair amount. From meeting my most recent romantic partner at a local furry group to overwhelming convention weekends and even a death that I cannot reasonably untangle from the community, it is a background detail that every now and then will take center stage.

So I guess it’s not really a minor part of my identity. I’d say about half the people I regularly associate with these days are furries, and the other half I am secretly converting. Perhaps you can add a bit of comedy to some of my future pieces with the knowledge that I unironically referred to myself as a husboar and boarfriend to my most recent ex-partners.

Yes, yes, I know. I’m simply unboarable.

Now that we have that acknowledgement out of the way, I kind of want to dig in and ponder the questions I regularly hear asked about the community. “Why did you decide to be a furry? Is it, like, you know? A sex thing? Can I set your suit on fire and watch you burn inside it?”

No to that last one, of course. I don’t own a fursuit! Do you know how much those things cost? Not to mention my claustrophobia, nearly had a panic attack when I tried on a friend’s head.

So, why am I drawn to such a concept? Well, on the most basic level, I do think it’s kind of simple.

As a child growing up in the 90s, there were hundreds of cartoons to choose from, many of which involved cute animal creatures just going about their otherwise human lives. Some kids hone in on princesses, others on superheroes, but I could never get enough of those funny animal people. In a way, I guess I have always been a furry; not that I have always associated with the community, but I would always lean towards work that had the animal aesthetic.

I really do believe it’s that simple for most of us. We grew up with media that featured these things and eventually developed a strong affinity, much like any other nerd culture. Perhaps the confusion is in part due to there being no centralized cultural work. Even if you don’t get the intensity of their passion, it’s easy enough to get Trekkies just really like Star Trek. Furries are based around a concept.

But what I really think trips up outsiders is the concept of the fursona. We don’t just consume media that happens to feature anthropomorphic animals; we end up creating our own characters. There’s also that always lingering question about sex, which I think is brought on by another apparent factor; the furry community is much queerer than the average population. From my perspective, I believe there’s a clear link between these concepts, of being queer and the desire to create an alternate identity.

I believe one under-discussed difference between cisgender straight people and queer people is how we view our own bodies. Of course, plenty of straight people have concerns about their appearance, but many queer people also have to struggle with comparing their bodies to those of the people they are attracted toward. And, obviously, a transgender person is constantly made aware of their own physicality.

As a queer person, I’m rather lucky in the sense that I do fall into the general range of what I find attractive; but even then, the simple fact I even consider whether I find myself attractive is a telling sign. There’s a drive to fit into a certain mold, and to be unhappy if we don’t. It seems almost nonsensical; why does it matter if we find ourselves attractive as long as other people do? Yet, ultimately, I present myself in the way I do more for my own sake than to try and appear attractive to others. But even with my general body positivity, I’m still aware of the small pieces I would change if I could.

What I’m suggesting here is, a fursona is a method of creating another version of yourself, an idealized one. This is a community where people are encouraged to consider their own self-image, to dress up as a form they can be happy with. This has a natural appeal to a community consisting of people who spent their teenage years being questions by themselves and others.

Let’s look at me specifically. Why did I create Bleu? A boar is an especially uncommon choice among furries, perhaps because porcine creatures get a bad rep. I idealize the concept of being misunderstood, of being better than what people assume from a first glance. Male wild boars are solitary creatures, which I felt fit my personality. I’m a bit heavyset, and boars have the right shape to be chubby without immediately coming off as fetishistic. There are other creatures that could tick these boxes, but I simply like tusks.

Which is funny, because despite settling on a boar due to the tusks, I immediately decided to break one. Not on a stylistic whim, but because I was in the process of needing a root canal while my friends were pushing me into finally making my ‘sona. So I guess while selling this idea of creating an idealized self, I’m the type to embrace flaws…

Another key element here is the possibility of visual diversity and symbolism. A boar and a fox is going to come with different social connotations. “This guy is a horse so he must be depressed, and this dog is obnoxiously excited at all times.” There’s shorthand in how we view animals, both inside and outside the fandom. There is an endless sea of animals to choose from; creating a fursona offers up infinite possibilities.

Just don’t ask me why, with so many options to pick from, half of us settled on dog.

At the heart of it all, this is a community that asks you to visualize yourself in another form. It gives you a mirror that only reflects what you want to see.

So, now for that question that has been sitting on the edge of your tongue since I first mentioned it; is this a sex thing? Well, this is a people thing. Do I need to tell you whether people can be sexual?

There is this strange trend in parts of the furry community to adamantly deny the adult side of the fandom; but any quick google search will show it’s there, and boy is there a lot of it. Some of us want ‘outside respectability’ to the point of being self-defeating. The constant denial only adds an air of shame to the whole thing, one that shouldn’t be necessary.

So, of course there is an element of sex to this fandom, largely because it is a community where people create idealized versions of themselves. It’s not about sex, but sex is there if you want it. It’s really a simple thing; a central element of this fandom is to commission artists to create images of your character. A lot of it is entirely innocent; my first piece of Bleu existed just to capture the boredom of walking to work. But all it takes is a tiny bit of horniness while you’re shopping around, and you have plenty of options to get something lewd. So it’s not so much that the furry community is sexual as much as it allows people an open form to express themselves. It only seems natural that a community based around self-expression and content creation would have a notable (but not centralized) pornographic side.

So, yes, furries are humans who sometimes like to think about, and maybe even have, sex. It may be hard to believe, but furries don’t have a monopoly on horny.

To close this out, I want to cycle back to what I consider the most important element. This is how I met a romantic partner and numerous other friends. It is a community all about acceptance, sometimes to a dangerous fault. It’s a place not just to be yourself, but to imagine who you want to be. At the heart of it all is the people.

Now, let’s get back to exploring my traumas in intimate detail. I promise not to boar you with any more misplaced animal puns.

This town is beginning to eat you alive.

His words pierce through you, despite the fact you’re certain he was looking for an easy excuse. “I don’t want to follow you to California.” Though you assured him you’ll likely be in town for several more years, as you would prefer to finish paying off your students loans first and are actually managing that goal surprisingly well, he apparently sees no point in seeing where things can go. He cannot see you for who you are today because he is aware that the you of tomorrow may not be here.

Really, you might as well be dead already.

You know better than to pack your bags and head to California. Breaking into Hollywood is a pipe dream, and your mind has always been set on the indie circuit anyway. But, hey, if you can manage to get into one of the top screenwriting programs, why not check it out for a couple years and try to network?

But no one here seems to understand the big ‘if.’ You try to explain that both programs you would consider have an acceptance rate lower than Harvard Law. There is a five percent chance you can manage to claw your way in. And, since you have no other reason to leave this town, that’s a 95% chance you stay right where you are.

But that slim, nearly hopeless chance of success? You’re a ghost. You live here but you don’t, transient despite your enduring presence. You moved here in 2011, and honestly, you wouldn’t mind dying here. Even in your perfect future, you imagine moving back to a quiet town like this once you have truly established yourself. At this stage of your life, only one thing could reasonably convince you to leave.

After all, your main goal in life is to continue writing. This project alone is proof that you can write anywhere you want. It might not be your ‘dream project,’ but maybe it is? Maybe you just want to get your story out there, and the only reason you have put so much focus on making it as a screenwriter is because you personally prefer film to other forms of media? Perhaps these people see staying here as a sign that you have given up, when you honestly don’t see it that way in the slightest.

But if this is how they perceive you, you are gone already. Your life has been put on hold until you achieve your dreams. You’re ‘California-bound’ and suffocating under the weight of that label that has been so carelessly inflicted upon you by your closest friends.

Perhaps they think this is encouragement. That denying you anything meaningful will push you harder toward your ‘ultimate’ goal. Maybe they don’t notice that the more you are pushed, the more you view your artistic pursuits as a negative aspect of your life. Art has become conflict. You are certain no one wants to put any meaningful emotional investment into you because they are already living in the future where you have left, and you sometimes regret ever speaking of your higher aspirations.

The town you have called home for several years is slowly being corrupted into a pit of loneliness. You want people to see who you are, right here and now.

But they see through you.

You really need to explain to me the point of this whole Santa concept. What exactly do you get out of buying me gifts and attributing it to some person that does not exist?

Is it, perhaps, a sense of humility? That by hiding your own presence in the purchasing of these gifts, you have created a selfless act?

But why? Giving gifts is one of the most obvious expressions of human love. All you did was take this intimate act and bury it in an anonymous box, turning love into an object that carried a purely material existence. You allowed yourself to give love and denied me the tools necessary to perceive it.

Writing this down makes me feel stupid. Why does this matter in the grand scheme of things? I guess, looking back, I never really felt loved as a child. I lived in constant fear of abandonment and grasped desperately at any sign that I mattered. But instead of anything obvious and real, I was given this fantasy of some elusive fat man who only dropped by one day a year.

I look back on perhaps the most essential gift of my childhood with a strange sense of shame. You used to sign up to buy gifts for poor families, and one year you got a family who, for whatever reason, owned a Game Boy game (I believe one belonging to the Donkey Kong series) without actually owning a Game Boy. You brought me with you to the store and I remember being jealous; I had wanted a Game Boy Color for so long, and to see you buy it for someone else was absurd.

Yes, I was a selfish child.

Then, Christmas Day came, and of course you knew the perfect gift for me; my childish outrage had made it clear. But the gift did not come from you; it came from Santa. While I was obviously overtaken by excitement in my youth, I also remember thinking about how much better Santa was at knowing what I wanted. What did that say about you?

This myth did more than needlessly shroud your care; like everyone else who engages in this fiction, you one day had to admit the truth. I of course had my suspicions, but it still left me feeling hurt. Not that he didn’t exist, but the fact you would commit to this act in the first place. I felt betrayed in the moment, and it took years to retroactively credit you for the gifts I had received in the past.

And, really, did I need yet another man whose sole purpose was to spontaneously disappear from my life?

I’ve always viewed myself as a rather staunch anti-traditionalist, and I wish I had a better explanation than looking back to something like this. This knowledge that the person raising me would choose to lie brought so much into question.

We call it a white lie, but I don’t believe the intent there is true. To believe this is a lie that doesn’t matter is to suggest the lie had no true impact; but it did.

Really, there are no white lies. Just lies.

The danger of writing rather intimate biographical pieces is that you (read: the author of this piece) don’t exist in a vacuum and have a moral obligation to respect the privacy of those people who have left a mark on your life. It is a tricky field to navigate, but one you must.

So if you (read: the people I will soon be writing about) are afraid, do not worry. It is not my place, or even desire, to drop names. In the end, the intent of these reflections is to take a closer look at myself. Even as I ponder your purpose in my life, the end goal is to talk about me. So you will simply remain ‘you,’ a faceless mask to all but those who already know these stories.

And I’m sorry if you (read: the person reading this) find this tendency to be disorienting or exasperating. But imagine it like this; these are the private letters I should have written, the words I would have spoken if I had only earlier found my voice. I wish to put you in the position of these unnamed individuals, let you become them if only for a few hundred words at a time.

But before I dive in, I must apologize to you (read: the people in my life who have left such an impact that redacting your name can not shroud who you are). You are the blood that flows through me. Without you I’m nothing. The point of this project is to talk about me. But talking about me is just another way of talking about you.

Or maybe, rather, the point is to talk about us.

You worship at the feet of artists who died younger than you are now. Ian Curtis committed suicide twelve years before you were born, yet you sit in awe imagining a world where he could have hung on just a few more years. What art would he have produced with Unknown Pleasures and Closer already under his belt? Whatever would have happened, you’re certain he would have made better use of his 24th and 25th years.

Time has lingered as a specter from the beginning. You have always posited yourself as one destined to die young; no one is ever more surprised by your continued presence than you are. But as you leave that first quarter century behind and move into your 26th year, you are so keenly aware that that year sits on the other side. Soon, you will grow as old as Kurt Cobain and Janis Joplin, and then outlive them.

But you won’t outlive them. Not in the way that matters, not with what you have now. Even if the numbers line up, the bouncer will refuse your entry into that particular club. “Rehab,” “Purple Haze,” Nevermind were already established at this stage in their lives. And it’s not that they somehow knew they had to get to work because their time on this Earth was limited, no; that ambition was simply there.

What do you have to show for these last twenty five years? A few screenplays that, sure, you put in the effort to not just write but rewrite entirely several times over, but never quite completing a work you are satisfied with. You figure these stories can be improved with time, living documents that aren’t finalized until they are finally being produced, no longer under your control.

But how much time do you have to spend on this misguided sense of perfectionism? You dream of getting into programs out west, just to see what can happen, but you talk yourself down as soon as applications open. “I’m not ready yet.”

You stupid bitch. When will you ever be ready? Is anyone ever truly ready to put their work out there? That inexplicable beast known as death isn’t going to wait for you to be ready, so why are you? What are you even afraid of? Rejection? Of course you’re afraid of rejection. But what matters more? Avoiding your fears? Or pursuing your dreams?

Ian Curtis, that desolate ghost hanging in the back of your head, was only twenty three. Twenty three, yet the handful of works he gifted us dig into your soul like few others. He wrangled that anxious, despairing beast into refined artistic statements until it consumed him.

Consumed? No, that’s not true at all. That depression might have pushed him to his end, but until that last day, he fought through it and brought so much into this world.

But you? You barely try. The last several months have left you an absolute wreck, and I bet you haven’t written more than a couple dozen pages.

Can’t you see that these stories are you? That this is the voice you have chased from the beginning? That every day you don’t write adds fuel to your burning self-hatred?

And this is where the optimist in you chimes in. “You’ve had a rough year. You’re doing the best you can.” Well, fuck that voice and fuck you. You know this is not enough.

And the fact you know you have to do more is a good thing. You can course correct – because you’re not Ian Curtis. More than likely, you have plenty of time left. You are not enough – but you can be. You know art can be a game of luck, but it is a game that costs nothing to enter. How do you ultimately win a game with no entry fee? Simple. You persist.

You must persist, Topher.