It’s no news that queer representation has been an issue in Hollywood. Since the birth of media, the narratives of people like me have been rejected from the big screen in favor of the same love story between a man and a woman being reiterated again and again. 

Lately, though, there has been a big shift in the tide, and queer characters have emerged in prominent movies like Carol, Moonlight, Call Me By Your Name, and Love Simon. Yet, I find myself unable to relate to such flat depictions. A poised and generous 1950s Cate Blanchett and I have nothing in common except for the fact that we are both addicted to nicotine. A suburban gay boy who has a healthy relationship with his parents and doesn’t just lock himself in his room and blast Ariana's "break up with your girlfriend, i'm bored" until his they feel sorry for him? Unheard of. Call Me By Your Name got my attention with underage promiscuity, but after realizing their relationship was based on trust and understanding instead of a problematic power dynamic, I lost interest.

Was that all I was to the world? A single-dimensional, deeply good person deserving of compassion and human sympathy just like any straight person? It couldn’t be so. 

All of that changed with the most recent Oscar season, where, for the first time in my life, I looked upon the big screen and saw, like a mirror reflecting upon my soul, the most manipulative, slimy, little gay pricks Hollywood has ever seen. 

I watched with glee while Rachel Weisz, like a little lesbian weasel, used every cunning, disgusting, and unforgivable act she could think of to win the Queen’s affections in the Favourite, not unlike the time I lied about my age and switched my friend’s birth control with Xanax to get a chance with Miss Nugget, a drag queen who had gout. I thought, at the time, that such a true-to-life representation was unbeatable.

I was mistaken. Only days later I watched Bohemian Rhapsody and marveled at the way Freddie Mercury’s lover, Paul, lied and schemed so relentlessly that he broke apart one of the best bands of all time. Little did the creators know that I, once, tried to destroy my high school’s indie band, Cumlumbus Day, by leaking the lead singer's dick pics.

So, thank you Hollywood. Thank you for teaching me and all the young, bony, glitter-clad brats who will grow up to be me that we are seen as the dramatically conniving little shitheads we deserve to be.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, Jonathan Van Ness isn't going to catfish himself.

Image Credit: The Favourite and Bohemain Rhapsody