Category Archives: sexuality

I went to my high school reunion queer & proud, but still couldn’t shake the fear of being outed

By Timothy DuWhite

“Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten that much of the edible?” I ponder intently as I wait for my group’s turn outside the photo tent. My friend Brianna had given me one of her special brownies about an hour before rolling up here and a nigga is starting to feel it. Like, feel it feel it.

You know when you’re at a party or function or whatever, and you’re dancing towards the brink of sweat, yet a bead hasn’t quite fallen yet, but you know if the DJ insists on carrying on like this the rains are going to eventually flood? So you try your best to temper your own storm, bop your head slower, alternate from choreo to two-step, wave your hand about your face to conjure a bit of wind.  


But then the DJ in all his malevolence puts on yo shit! And now Meek Mill is the supreme final authority over the freedom you grant your own body to purge. Hold up wait a minute, y’all thought I was finished?/When I bought that Aston Martin y’all thought it was rented? And now you’re in the bathroom trying to turn your clothes arid again—beneath the piercing high pitched croak of a silver Xlerator hand-dryer. You nervously giggle as people walk in, saying shit like, “Spilt my damn drink! You know how it is! ‘08 don’t hate! Hahahahhahahahaahhahahahahahahaah.”

You know? You know that feeling? Well, nigga, that’s how I feel.

Not like I’m bout to sweat, but like with one wrong move I’m somehow going to float the fuck out of my own 10 year high school reunion. So I try my best to counteract the drug’s progression. I stand still as fuck. I smile as people walk by me.

I say, “Nice to see you,” or, “It’s been so long,” so niggas think I’m regular, and hopefully, somehow, I can trick my body into thinking it, too.

I am waiting for my girls to get back from the bathroom so we can take this picture and I can finally sit my irresponsible high ass the hell down. I’m standing to the side of the open bar where niggas are congregated like thirst is the only function in their body. I am shuffling a bit, trying to make myself small enough to not impede on anyone’s merriment, when I feel a nudge to my back. I turn around and see a small woman looking down at her feet.

She is holding her glass of liquor like most niggas do when they’re trying to prevent a spill from climbing any further up their arm. Her elbow positioned in a right angle, a small arch forming in her upper back, and her drink positioned far enough from her body to assess the amount of damage done to her fit and the floor. I am sorry, I think, before even opening my mouth, but she jumps, “You spilled my fucking drink!” It almost sounded like laughter, and she says it again, “You spilled my fucking drink!” She finally looks at me, and I’m not sure if it’s the drugs or just this small woman, but I can’t get a read on her tone. I think she is smiling, but her eyes are carnivorous so I may be misreading her teeth. She says, still in this strange space between laughter and not, “Who the fuck are you! Like, who are you anyway?”

And suddenly I am hyper aware that I decided to don a black dress/shirt hybrid tonight. Followed up with the skin tight black jeans that I intentionally only pull out when I want to feel cunty. And on my feet I have on the black boots I bought three days prior from none other than Gay Niggas ‘R’ Us (aka Zara). So when she asks who am I, who the fuck am I, I don’t know how to tell her that if I walked into our school 10 years ago as I am now, the younger, closeted me would probably ask the exact same thing. So I ignore her inquisition and instead say, “I’ll get you a napkin.”

But truthfully I don’t want to. Not because I am rude but because, from the bottom of my heart, fuck this soggy bucket-head ass troll and all the niggas she run wit! What a glass shattering way to ask such a fragile question in a space steeped with the fear of being forgotten. Everyone, even the most popular, who are entering this hall are contemplating their contribution to the collective memory in this room. And this small woman thinks it an equally small feat to call me out amongst the onlooking of her snickering friends to answer this question? This question that was by no means prompted by our interaction, but rather her desire to impose some flickering-cafeteria-room-hierarchy-dominance she lost a long time ago but tonight regained temporary access to? My nigga!

Fuck. Out. Of. Here.

But I pass her a hand full of tissues anyway and walk away silently towards my table. Turns out I too have regained my own sort of temporality. But instead of a placebo dominance, I am returning to my high school legacy of remaining small. If I’m being honest, I don’t recognize who she is either, a fact that has less to do with her popularity during that time, and more to do with my desire to remain niche. My fear of being discovered as gay forced me to only frequent a small array of circles during high school. To everyone else I was just the “track kid.” Since I was so good at running, folks rarely questioned my sexuality. To them, being athletic automatically equated straight, which was an ignorance I was thankful for.

The hall they rented out reminds me of prom. Same high ceilings. Same golden glittery light display illuminating the space into a whimsical fairytale. The soft blue flames from the chafing dish burners whisk me into a nostalgic trance that takes me off my original course back to my seat (some real high shit). So instead of returning to the table, I stand in the belly of the dance floor just staring. At the flames? Maybe? But mostly just at nothing.

Who the fuck are you! I think to myself, as I see from the corner of my eye more people entering the hall, laughing and enamored in all of the room’s light. Tim, what are you doing here?I also think, followed again with no answer. I was so excited for this moment. I was intrigued by the history of high school reunions. The long legacy of folks who decide to return. The sitcom reenactments. Martin Payne finally settling the score with Ricky Fontaine (pretty Ricky is what they call em”). I wanted to somehow add to this tapestry—but here I am failing. I wore this outfit because I wanted to prove how comfortable I am in my skin now. How I have changed—grown.

The only score I needed to settle was with myself, but now look at me. A closeted, queer sixteen-year-old again, struck motionless by the presence of someone demanding that I reveal myself.

Finally, my fiance comes to retrieve me. He says, “Babe, there you are, they’re playing Bachata! Show me some of those moves you’ve been telling me you know.” And he is referring to the stories I told him of the older Black men who would often chill outside the neighborhood barbershop when I was growing up in my predominantly Latinx neighborhood. They would always stop me and say shit like, “What’s up young brotha. I’ve seen you been keeping up with your runs. That’s good! You gonna get all these girls on ya dick. But you know there ain’t nothin but Spanish puss in Passaic. You know how you get them, right? You know, right?” And usually I’d just smile, shrug my shoulders, and try my best not to look uncomfortable. “You got to do their dances. These Spanish bitches love a Black dude that can do that Bachata and shit. It makes their pussies wet. Learn their dances, son.”

And so I did, hoping that in some odd way it would make me straighter. Can’t say it makes much sense now, or if it even did then. But I got decent at it anyway.

“What, you backing out now?” my fiance teases, looking more beautiful than anything my sixteen year old self could ever have imagined. And suddenly, I feel ashamed I brought him all the way from our home in Brooklyn to a large room in Jersey, just to see me like this. “Naw, I’m a little fucked up, let’s sit for a minute.”

But truth is, from what I can tell, I am the only person who brought a “partner” to this reunion. Sure, there might be other fiances, but partner is the only term straight folks prescribe to gay niggas. And I know that we would be the only partners on the dance floor, and I would not be able to focus. Or be comfortable. Or conjure the warm electricity needed to perform such movement.

We live in the age where social media makes it easier to keep up with people you would have otherwise forgotten. Two years ago, in preparation for this day, our class officers created a Facebook group to organize and get the word out about our reunion. Just about everyone in this room was added to the page. We spent the first months of its creation catching up on life, stalking each others profiles, and learning of each other’s journeys. The shit that folks used to wait to do until the actual reunion. So, before even coming here, folks already knew that I was an artist, HIV positive, and gay (I say queer, but whatever).

So when my partner and I first walked through the hall doors we were greeted with nothing but love and affirmations. “So good to see you two!” “Congratulations on the engagement.” “Wow, so you’re Tim’s partner? I see you on Facebook so much it feels like I already know you.” Just smiles, and laughter. I know how to spot when a compliment is forced, so I know many of theirs were, but why should it matter? Isn’t this the prom I always wanted? To be in a room filled with tolerant people? To have the beautiful boy as my date, and do the dance I was secretly learning for him all along?

But I did not get this high by accident. I knew what I was doing. I knew that this moment was coming, and I hoped being high would make it easier. But here I am, seated back at my table. Sitting beside my fiance, with his fingers laced between mine, yet somehow I am still wearing that familiar fear of being “outed.”

I hate that soggy bucket-head ass troll, and all the trolls that have come before her. From elementary, to middle, to high school, all asking that same question, “Who the fuck are you?” And never accepting my silence as a legitimate answer. What a fucked up world we live in, where I learn the full extent of my trauma only after my lover asks me to dance.

Reading Suggestions

All prisoners are political prisoners: The #vaughnuprising and how ignoring hostage strategy forgoes our freedom“— Jess Krug, RaceBaitR  (Feb 13, 2017)

The girl who pushed Tyra Banks (and the internet) over the edge” — Michael Blackmon, Buzzfeed (January 26, 2017)


Timothy DuWhite is a black, queer, poz-writer/artist based out of Brooklyn, NY. A majority of his work circles around the intersections of state & body, state & love, and state & mind. All Timothy desires is a different/newer world for his sha-daughters, and believes the written word is one tool that could be used towards achieving that goal.

The post I went to my high school reunion queer & proud, but still couldn’t shake the fear of being outed appeared first on RaceBaitr.

There are no “danger signs” for sexual assault: Lessons from a Hmong survivor

*Content Note: Sexual assault*

By Kabzuag Vaj

There have been three times in my life that I can vividly remember having an out of body experience. Once during a horrible winter car accident, the other two were right before I was sexually violated/assaulted.  

The first time I remember having an out of body experience was when I took my mom’s grey Pontiac Bonneville to Minnesota to see a boy, during one of the worst Midwest snow storms, and got into an accident. That particular day, it had snowed non-stop. The roads were icy and for miles cars were lined up on the side of the road or in the ditches. It was impossible to drive, I could only see a few inches in front of me, and yet I continued to stroll along trying to get home when suddenly I lost control of the car and went off the road into a ditch.

Fortunately, no one in the car was hurt and I was able to drive out safely. But as the car sprung out of control and flew into the ditch, I remember thinking I was going to die. I remember it as a surreal moment, a moment of being in between reality and a dream— feeling my body and the car spin but watching everything happen from somewhere else. As the car landed, I collected myself and figured out a way to get out of the ditch.

I completely blamed myself because I had ignored all the danger signs.


The second time I had an out of body experience was when I woke up from what I thought was a nightmare only to find out it was actually reality. The night before, my childhood friend slept over because we had been out late. That next morning, I had a nightmare that I was watching someone hovering over me while I was asleep. My spirit must have sensed it before my body and tried to warn me. I woke up seconds later to find my childhood friend standing next to my bed lurking over me.

I remembered him asking if he could lay down with me. Still confused and scared, I answered yes, but then I calmly got up and left the room. Though I don’t remember him touching me, I still felt violated and betrayed. I remember calling a rape crisis hotline to speak to someone. How could he do this to me? He was my childhood friend, he was my brother-in-law, I thought we were family.

Once again I completely blamed myself because I had ignored all the danger signs. Did I say something, do something? Did I lead him on? Was I not clear? Why wasn’t I able to see this coming?

The last time my spirit left my body was while out of town at a summer Hmong cultural festival. I became stranded and got a ride from a police officer who was a relative of a friend in my neighborhood. I had met him a few times prior and knew that he liked me, so I felt safe. While at his house we started kissing and making out. At one point, he wanted intercourse, but I knew I didn’t so I clearly told him “no!” As things progressed, he got more physical and tried to force himself in me.

I knew I wasn’t strong enough to physically stop him, so I decided to prepare myself for the worst. I started to disassociate my mind from my body to prepare for what I thought was going to happen. I felt myself watching the assault from across the room, when suddenly a calm came over me and I snapped back into reality. It was then that I tried talking to him. I said, “I really like you, let’s take it slow so when we do have sex it will mean something.” Surprised by my statement he got off of me. I quickly got dressed waited calmly for him—the guy who just tried to assault me—to give me a ride to safety.  

For years, I’ve blamed myself for not being able to identify “danger signs” in the sexual assault situations.

But we live in a society that values cisgender men over women/girls/queer/trans folks, and these values are instilled into every system that manages our lives. Whether we like it or not, most of us are conditioned to believe this and live this belief out in ways that are toxic and abusive to each other—like rape and sexual assault.

I grew up in a very traditional Hmong household where boys were more valued than girls, women eat after men, my brothers’ needs and desires were more important than mine. This conditioned me to believe I was secondary to boys and men—and their needs and desires. In a culture that believes my body isn’t mine—or that as a woman I’m less valued than a man—there could be no signs that just by accepting a ride home or inviting a friend over, I was in fact inviting sexual assault and rape.

If it has become our norm, then there is no way of knowing. This is what has made it so easy for those closest to us, who have the most access to us, to cause the most gender-based violence against us. They can because they are not held accountable for the harm they cause. 

I’ve spent the last 20 years of my life trying to figure out what it would take to create and build a world free gender-based violence, and what it would be to have transformational communities where abusers are held accountable, survivors don’t abuse, and victims have what they need to survive. I’ve learned so many lessons along the way. I now know that misogyny and patriarchy is part of our culture, and therefore we must create a new way of being—where women, girls, queer folks are valued, loved and cared for.  We must be brave and create new moral compasses.

Perhaps the most important lesson I’ve learned is that I must be gentle with all victims including myself—whether they were raped, almost raped, sexually assaulted or got away. I’ve imagined in my head all the different scenarios that could have played out, and no matter what happened I survived. No action I took was right or wrong, all that mattered is I survived. No warning signs, danger signs could have stopped someone from harming me if that’s what they wanted to do. Only those who caused harm can carry the shame for harming.  

If not healed, those who are harmed can also harm others. We must be careful who is surviving us while we are surviving. Learning about consent, healthy sex and love is important to creating a rape free society. The body remembers even when the mind has forgotten. It’s important for all victims and survivors to love themselves and forgive themselves in order to heal. Healing is more than just deepening our analyses. We must also take care of our bodies, so that it too has new memories.

*This essay is part of our monthlong collaboration with FORCE: Upsetting Rape Culture,  Rape Can & Must End*

Suggested Readings:

Derrick Weston Brown, Tafisha Edwards,  Teri Cross Davis, “Rape Can & Must End: Poems“, RaceBaitR, 2018

Kalima Y. Young, “Musings on a world without rape: A listicle“, RaceBaitR, 2018

Richael Faithful, “Rape culture tells us it is normal. My body knows this is a lie“, RaceBaitR, 2018

Phill Branch, “Heteronormativity makes us prey: At 15 I believed acting out my crushes was worse than being exploited by strangers“, RaceBaitR, 2018


Kabzuag Vaj was born in Laos and came to this country as a refugee child with her mother and siblings. She is founder and co-executive director of Freedom Inc. Freedom, Inc’s mission is to end violence within and against low-income communities of color by building the power of Black, Hmong, and Khmer, women, queer folks and youth. Kabzuag is also a co-owner/founder of Red Green Rivers, a social enterprise that works with Artisan makers, most of whom are women and girls, from the Mekong Region in Southeast Asia.

The post There are no “danger signs” for sexual assault: Lessons from a Hmong survivor appeared first on RaceBaitr.

Heteronormativity makes us prey: At 15 I believed acting out my crushes was worse than being exploited by strangers

*Content Note: This essay contains descriptions of childhood sexual predation*

By Phill Branch

I’d been raised on fear.

Don’t go down this block, they might steal your Pumas.

Daddy’s drunk tonight.

Just Say No.

They kidnapping Black boys your age.

Don’t run, or they’ll think you’re stealing.

And on, and on.

I was 15. It was a boxy sedan. He was old, or at least it felt that way to me at the time. I don’t remember exactly what he looked like, but I remember thinking he was older than my parents. In some ways, that made him feel safe(r). He was somebody’s grandfather, probably. He had on a ring.

As I stood waiting at the bus stop, he slowly pulled up in front of me. I was headed to my summer job with the Urban League. We were doing a workshop in downtown Newark that day at Essex County College. I’d stood on that bus stop many times before, but never alone and never that early.

There wasn’t another person in sight. The stores weren’t open yet and while there had to be other people nearby getting ready to start the day, in that moment, it was just me and this stranger and his car.

He hopped out, walked around to the newspaper stand a few feet away, looked me over and nodded. All of this is being done as if it were not raining. He took his time, despite getting wet. He grabbed a paper and headed back to his car that was idling in front of me.


My heart was racing. I could tell he was circling me and sizing me up. I had a lump in my throat. I knew I could take off and run if he tried anything and began preparing myself for that possibility. This was Jersey. Folks barely speak when they pass by. This man had stopped, nodded at me and smiled. Danger.

My legs started to shake a bit and then he puts the car in drive. I exhaled. Then, the passenger window slowly opened.

“Where you going?” he said, warmly.

“Downtown,” I said, pretending not to be afraid.

“You gonna be soaked.”

The door unlocks.

“Get in.”

I stood there for about 20 seconds, mind racing, and then politely declined. He smiled at me in a way that I would later become familiar with. It was the smile of a person who is enjoying your fear and getting off on the controlling you.

At 17 I’d see that smile again as I sat nervously in the park one dark, summer evening. A man, at least my dad’s age sat next to me, smiled and told me he could tell I didn’t belong and then just sat there, grinning, until he decided to move on. At 21 I’d see that smile as a wiry man locked me into his apartment and whispered, “Nobody knows you’re here. I can do anything to you.” Years later, it was a man whose smile would light up the room, when I first saw him seething in anger and it alerted me that it was time to walk on eggshells.

But at 15 I didn’t know to look underneath. A smile was a smile. I was a little scared, but it was raining and maybe he was just being nice. He was clearly on his way to work or something—and that smile. He couldn’t be so bad, I told myself as he sat there waiting for me to change my mind after I’d already told him no.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

This is the part where a kid like me who knows the rules of being raised on fear backs up and takes off down the street. I didn’t run, though. I stood there. I stood there because there was another fear that had taken residence in my teenage mind.

Catch the ball and stop acting like faggot.

Get out your mama face and come sit here and watch this game.

You know they broke Marlon’s jaw, cause he a sissy.

All them punks catching AIDS and dying.

If I catch you playing rope again, I’ma beat your ass.

I grew up in Newark in the 70s with my mother and father in a one-bedroom apartment on Chancellor Avenue. My memories about that time match the sepia tones of the old photographs my mother has hung on to in worn out containers.

I lived blocks away from Weequahic Park. The park was massive. It wasn’t quite the famed Central Park in neighboring New York City, but for a kid surrounded by brick and aluminum siding, it was a never-ending forest. It’s one of the few places I can remember being alone with my father.

I cracked my head pretty badly in Weequahic Park once when I was about four years old. This was the pre public safety era. I was hanging on a steel death trap with metal bolts hanging over cement and gravel, better known as the “jungle gym.” I fell hard, touched my head, detected blood and then walked to my father who was yakking it up with some of his boys on a park bench. I was calm, but the bleeding sent my father into a panic, which then sent me into a panic. He scooped me up and whisked me away to Beth Israel hospital. It’s one of few moments from my childhood that I could feel, in a tangible way, that my father was my protector.

It was some time shortly thereafter that I got the “look.”

My father was an ex-army, football playing, beer drinking, weed smoking, card playing brother tailor made for the seventies. He was one of those guys all of the other guys wanted to be around. I have no idea how I am his son.

My father did many things as a young man, but what he was to me then, more than anything else, was a Hall of Fame football player. You couldn’t have told me that my father wasn’t a superstar. I had the yearbook pictures and high school trophies to prove it. I wanted to be just like him. I’m not exactly sure if I knew what that meant. Then, in an instant, things changed as a football struck me in the face.

I whined and held my jaw after feeling the sting of the ball. “Stop being a punk,” he ordered as he picked the ball back up and threw it to me again.

I didn’t catch it.

I’m not exactly sure how long this game of catch went on, but it felt like an eternity. As the ball was being thrown in my direction, I learned a new vocabulary—sissy, punk and faggot. The self-confident, happy kid was quickly replaced by an inadequate son. With each toss of the football, I felt myself get a little bit smaller. I did catch the ball a couple times, but I didn’t feel good about it. There was no sense of accomplishment. I caught the ball because I wanted the game to end. I thought if I could catch it a few times, he’d leave me alone, but it just kept coming.

“Stop flinching,” he said as the ball came towards me harder. He scared me. When my emotions reached the tipping point, I did the only thing I knew to do: cry.

When I’d cried before, he comforted me, like when I hurt myself on the “jungle gym.” This time he just stared at me like I didn’t belong to him. The way he looked at me created a divide between us that took almost thirty years to overcome. I had only ever seen love reflected back at me in the eyes of the people I cherished most. My five year old brain didn’t have the ability to process his glare.

He made me stop crying before we went back inside the apartment. I know now that he made me stop because my mother wouldn’t have been pleased. Over the years I’d continue to learn to wipe the tears before my mom, or anyone else, could see them.

I thought my father hated me, but now I believe he was just doing what he thought fathers did to toughen up their sons. In an unintended way, he succeeded. I learned early on what life could be like for boys like me, and acted accordingly. But it also made me vulnerable. Burying everything left me open to strangers who could dig it up with leering looks. I knew they could harm me, but at least they would not reject me because I was “that way.”

This kind of fear made so many boys like me easy prey for men who knew we could not and would not say anything. I was more afraid of being found out than of being harmed, and these secret feelings had been welling up inside of me with nowhere to go. I’d gotten the looks before, and the smiles, but no one had ever approached like this man at the bus stop. Men like him were hiding, just like I was. We could keep company and I could learn from them all the things I needed to know.

At 15, I thought it might be easier and better to be used by grown strangers than to play out my crush on the guy who sat near me in math class.

I got in his car.

Despite:

Don’t go down this block, they might steal your Pumas.

Daddy’s drunk tonight.

Just Say No.

They kidnapping black boys your age.

Don’t run, or they’ll think you’re stealing.

And on, and on.

I still got in.

Epilogue

We drove. There was awkward conversation. He adjusted himself through his slacks. He pulled up on a side street near the college. He parked. We sat. He adjusted himself some more. My heart raced. I wanted to get out, but my legs were cement. Despite my loneliness and confusion, it didn’t take long for me to realize that I had made a terrible mistake.

He touched my knee, lingering a little bit longer than he should have, and moved up my thigh. I held my breath. He unlocked the door and said, “Be careful out here.” Again, with that smile. His words sent chills through me. It was a warning: you may not be so lucky next time. He released my thigh and was more stone faced than he had been our entire time together. I swung open the door, eyes locked on his, afraid to look away. I hopped out and waited outside the car. I didn’t want him to see which way I was going, but he didn’t budge. He watched me walk and then run towards the campus.

I went on about my day as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. It didn’t occur to me to report anything. Who would I tell? What would happen to me? Besides, I thought, “It was all my fault.”

Suggested Readings:

*This essay is part of our monthlong collaboration with FORCE: Upsetting Rape Culture,  Rape Can & Must End*

Suggested Readings:

Derrick Weston Brown, Tafisha Edwards,  Teri Cross Davis, “Rape Can & Must End: Poems“, RaceBaitR, 2018

Kalima Y. Young, “Musings on a world without rape: A listicle“, RaceBaitR, 2018

Richael Faithful, “Rape culture tells us it is normal. My body knows this is a lie“, RaceBaitR, 2018


The father of  two toddlers and husband of one adult, Phill loves writing and telling stories, when he’s not completely exhausted. He started in L.A. with his own storytelling show and has since gone on to perform in shows for Story District, Perfect Liars Club, Bentzen Ball and is a Moth StorySlam Champion.  

A graduate of the American Film Institute, Phill Branch recently directed Searching for Shaniqua; his documentary about the impact names have on our lives. The film won the HBO Best Documentary award at the 2016 Martha’s Vineyard African-American Film Festival.

Give him a shout @phillbranch. IG/Twitter

The post Heteronormativity makes us prey: At 15 I believed acting out my crushes was worse than being exploited by strangers appeared first on RaceBaitR.

Demi Lovato To Discuss Sexuality In New Documentary

VIDEO: Demi Lovato – Simply Complicated (Official Trailer)

(RADIO.COM) – Demi Lovato took to social media this afternoon with a message for those speculating about her sexuality.

“Just because I’m [sic] refuse to label myself for the sake of a headline doesn’t mean I’m not going to stand up for what I believe in,” she wrote.

“If you’re that curious about my sexuality, watch my documentary,” she continued. “But I don’t owe anybody anything.”

The posts echo the sentiment the “Sorry Not Sorry” singer recently shared in an interview with PrideSource.

“I just feel like everyone’s always looking for a headline and they always want their magazine or TV show or whatever to be the one to break what my sexuality is,” Lovato told the publication. “I feel like it’s irrelevant to what my music is all about. I stand up for the things that I believe in and the things that I’m passionate about, but I like to keep my personal life as private as possible when it comes to dating and sexuality and all that stuff just because it has nothing to do with my music. Unfortunately, we live in a world where everyone is trying to get that soundbite and I am purposefully not giving the soundbite. Watch my documentary.”

“I feel like it’s irrelevant to what my music is all about. I stand up for the things that I believe in and the things that I’m passionate about, but I like to keep my personal life as private as possible when it comes to dating and sexuality and all that stuff just because it has nothing to do with my music,” she continued. “Unfortunately, we live in a world where everyone is trying to get that soundbite and I am purposefully not giving the soundbite. Watch my documentary.”

The singer’s documentary Demi Lovato: Simply Complicated debuts October 12th on YouTube.

See Demi’s tweets below:

©2017 CBS Local Media, a division of CBS Radio Inc. All rights reserved.
 

Quick Fix – Issue #83

Quick Fix – Issue #83

Hello, everyone!

Welcome to this issue of Quick Fix! We hope you enjoy!

#83Click the cover for this issue!

Love,

The LLLRanting Family ♥

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The Failing 111

In the UK, we have two phone numbers to call when there is a medical situation – 999 and 111.
999 is our emergency number – if you need to contact the police, fire brigade or request an ambulance – 999 is the number to call. However, 111 was introduced in 2015 to handle the non-emergency demand.
But, what is classed as a non-emergency? Well, according to the NHS, Suicide isn’t an emergency. This…

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Book Review: The Wiccan Waltz by Pragya Vishnoi

Book Review: The Wiccan Waltz by Pragya Vishnoi

Disclaimer: we have been given this book has been given to us to review and critique. We will post the purchase link at the bottom of the article, we hope you enjoy.

The Wiccan Waltz is a Novella based around a character named Anika who is very curious about Wicca. Here is the book’s description:

Anika is a young, impulsive girl who hopes to solve the mysteries of life by following Wicca. On…

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Youtube’s LGBT+ Restrictions

Youtube is a place where you can let your visual creations go wild, whether you’re a vlogger, animator, special effects technician, or a gamer. However, some things have changed on Youtube recently that is restricting people from viewing certain content.

So, let me explain.

Youtube has brought in a restricted mode to allow more users to use the site. For example, high schools that had once…

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Our Spring Writing Contest

Our Spring Writing Contest

Entries must be in English.

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The Saviour Complex

What is the Saviour Complex? A Saviour Complex is when someone suggests that being with their partner saved them, fixed their problems, and got rid of (or cured) their depression.

And, as most of you will know, that is complete bullshit.

Why is it bullshit? Well, let’s have a look, shall we?

  • People cannot cure depression – the mental disorder that is depression is incurable. People cannot cure…

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