It took me a long time to understand why I can't help crying at Pride parades.

It's because hope is a brutal fucking emotion. If I know life will always be cold and lonely, at least I know. Hope is by nature unstable, uncertain. Hope is a probability balanced against horror.

Seeing a mother holding a "I LOVE MY TRANS SON" sign is beautiful but it rips the scabs off my heart.

And on Vaccine Eve, I'm crying again.

This is partly because I am extraordinarily drunk.

But it's hope again. It's a glimpse of a better world, and an agonizing reminder it was too late for too many, and strictly speaking, I don't know if it will be in time for me.

I'd gotten grumpy. Grumpy doesn't feel good, but you can settle into it like a broke-backed old sofa. Curse out the deniers and the reckless, sigh at the day's Numbers, repeat tomorrow.

There's no settling into hope. It's fresh and sharp and I honestly wasn't ready.

This isn't a quick salvation. The way out of Hell is going to be long and slow and we're only barely starting maybe. It'll be a while yet before I find out which of my coworkers have mustaches.

But suddenly, finally, painfully, there's hope.