Life throws you curve balls. Shit happens, and when it falls on you from a great height, you ultimately have two choices. You either wallow in it like a wanton pig (and outside of the club is never a good look), or you turn it into manure. The second option is naturally harder and will take ingenuity, resilience and bloody hard work.
But the alternative – becoming bitter and giving up on love - will leave you utterly alone. No one likes to be surrounded by misery 24/7. And hard-fact number one: ultimately no one cares how hard you’ve had it. They have their own stuff to deal with. Better to become the ultimate come-back queen and channel your inner Judy Garland. Be like every other fierce arse-kicking diva out there and rise from the ashes stronger and more interesting than ever before. Your life should be about defying all expectations. Humour – particularly of the self-deprecating variety – and dead-pan wit is the toolbox that will draw the right people to you.
Kick the ass out of heartbreak.
The screaming queens who can cause world war three just by flouncing into a cocktail party are amusing – to a point. But a lifetime of attention seeking is beyond tiring – on yourself and especially on others. Gain respect and empathy by judging your actions carefully.
The permanently drunk queen hurling G & T’s in people’s faces whenever he feels he’s been scorned may be (just about) tolerable in one’s early twenties. After that, you’re writing your epitaph as a raddled, bitter old drunk who is about as stable and trustworthy as a basket of rattlesnakes. Once you become that person, it’s not so much about you giving up on love; it’s about love giving up on you. And with good reason.
Desperately seeking attention can get a bore, sweetie.
The only type of jade in any self-respecting queen’s life should be of the precious gemstone variety. You’re going to shed countless skins as you’re dragged through the ferocious storms of love. Prepare to be thoroughly humiliated, outraged and broken – and know that you’ll always go back for more.
Why? Because giving up on love means letting go of that one-of-a-kind boundless joy you experience only when you meet the right – and frequently elusive – one. Your challenge is to crush cynicism and world-weariness. Become wiser and more cautious, yes, but lock yourself up in a penthouse in extravagant reclusiveness at your peril.
The only luggage you should be hauling around with you is a range of always-packed Louis Vuitton suitcases ready for those prized invitations to the south of France and St Moritz. Holding on to unnecessary grudges – against former friends and lovers – is frankly terrible on the old complexion.
No amount of Botox can transform a queen whose face has resembled a smacked growler ever since his intended jilted him for some hung but dumb Brazilian tart in the summer of 1987. Get over it and move on – everyone else has.
To quote that immortal line from Sunset Boulevard: “There’s nothing tragic with being 50, not unless you try to be 25”. As you grow older, you need to set your expectations accordingly. Hard-fact number two: in the brutal playground that is gay desire, you’re going to fade. There will always be someone younger and prettier waiting to replace you. After 25, the chicken that you once were, stops squawking. Deal with it.
There are few sights more wretched than the perma-tanned 66-year-old twink-chasing queen. If this is your bag and you adamantly refuse to readjust your mindset, then you are, effectively, giving up on love. Well, love that doesn’t involve you flashing your platinum credit card while adjusting your toupee and ordering industrial quantities of Viagra. The shame of it all!
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