How to Embrace Your Inner Weirdo: A Drag Queen's Guide to Universal Eccentricity

Well, I’ll be honest with you—when the sun finally kicked the bucket, I didn’t think I’d be one of the lucky ones to make it off this rock. I mean, let’s face it, I was pretty much a reject from society. Unemployed, unskilled, living in a beat-up old studio

apartment in a self-contained metropolis once known as Hell’s Kitchen—not exactly the kind of person you’d think would be chosen to populate a new world, you know? But hey, turns out being a crossdresser in the year 2345 had its perks.

The powers-that-be figured us LGBTQIA+ folks would be the perfect candidates to send off into the great unknown, since we’d already gotten a bit of practice at being outcasts and finding our own communities. And so, before you could say “Hasta la vista, Earth,” my wig-wearing comrades and I were being ushered onto hastily built spaceships that looked like giant...well, let’s just call them “personal massagers with thrusters.”

I’ll admit, I was a little nervous boarding that thing. We’d never even tested the vibration-powered technology before, let alone flown it through the endless void of space. But you know what they say—when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. Or in our case, when life gives you a dying planet, you hop on a dildo-shaped spaceship and go find a new one. And that’s exactly what we did.

Let me tell you, the journey was not without its challenges. We faced one disaster after another—solar flares, meteor showers, the occasional bout of sexism or transphobia from our less-enlightened (and less knowledgeable) crewmates. But through it all, me and my ragtag band of space adventurers pressed on, determined to find a new home among the stars. And you know what? Against all odds, we did it. We found a planet that could sustain human life.

As we touched down on the surface and stepped out into the alien atmosphere, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride. We made it. We survived. And now, it was time to start building a brave new world. The sky was a swirling mix of neon pink and electric blue, and the ground beneath our feet felt like walking on a giant waterbed. I half expected RuPaul to pop out from behind a rock and announce that this was all just an elaborate reality show. But no, this was our new reality. And let me tell you, it was a doozy.

We quickly discovered that the local flora had a tendency to sing show tunes at random intervals, and the fauna...well, let’s just say that Earth’s platypus had nothing on these critters. We had six-legged creatures that could knit sweaters with their tongues, and floating jellyfish-like beings that communicated through interpretive dance. As we set up our first colony, which we affectionately dubbed “New Hell’s Kitchen” (old habits

die hard), we realized that our skills as social outcasts were coming in handy. Who better to adapt to a world that defied all logic and reason than a bunch of weirdos who never fit in back on Earth?

Our resident goth girl, Raven, was already making friends with the shadow-dwelling creatures that only came out during the planet’s three-minute nights. Meanwhile, our resident conspiracy theorist, Tinfoil Tim, was having a field day trying to

decipher the crop circles that appeared in our vegetable garden overnight—turns out, they were just the local equivalent of drunk college students pulling pranks. As for me, well, I found my calling as the colony’s official translator of interpretive dance. Who knew those mandatory jazz classes in high school would finally pay off? I was now fluent in five different dialects of shimmy-shake-jazz-hands.

But the real kicker came when we discovered the planet’s primary food source: a fruit that tasted like a combination of bacon, chocolate, and kale. It was simultaneously the most delicious and most horrifying thing we’d ever eaten. We dubbed it the “Frankenfruit.”

Frankenfruit quickly became our main export, and before we knew it, we were the hottest commodity in the galaxy. Alien species from all corners of the nine systems were lining up to trade their advanced technology for a taste of our weird bacon-chocolate-kale abomination. Talk about a glow-up for a bunch of Earth rejects!

But success comes with its own set of problems. Suddenly, we had to deal with intergalactic politics, trade negotiations, and the occasional alien invasion attempt. Who knew running a planet would be so much work? I found myself longing for the simpler days of dodging landlords and scrounging for ramen noodles in Hell’s Kitchen.

One day, as I was busy translating a particularly passionate interpretive dance routine from our jellyfish neighbors (something about tax reforms and the importance of proper tentacle hygiene), I had an epiphany. Here we were, a bunch of misfits who had not only survived the end of the world but had thrived in the face of absurdity. We’d built a society where being different wasn’t just accepted, it was celebrated. Where your ability to adapt to the weird and wonderful was more valuable than any fancy degree or social status. I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. It took the end of the world and a journey across the stars for us to find a place where we truly belonged. And as I watched Tinfoil Tim trying to teach a six-legged knitting creature how to make a tinfoil hat, I realized that maybe, just maybe, we were exactly where we were meant to be all along.

As I pondered our bizarre journey from Earth’s outcasts to intergalactic movers and shakers, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Our little colony of misfits had become the envy of the cosmos, all thanks to our ability to roll with the punches and embrace the weird. Who would’ve thought that our collective oddities would be our greatest asset?

But life on New Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t all Frankenfruits and interpretive dance translations. We soon discovered that our newfound success had attracted some unwanted attention. Enter the Galactic Bureaucracy of Normalcy Enforcement (GBONE), a stuffy organization dedicated to maintaining the status quo across the universe. Apparently, our thriving society of weirdos was throwing off the cosmic balance or some such nonsense.

GBONE sent their top agent, a by-the-book alien named Zorp, to investigate our colony. Picture a walking, talking filing cabinet with a superiority complex, and you’ve got Zorp in a nutshell. His mission? To assess our planet and determine if we were “too weird” to exist in the grand scheme of things.

Zorp’s arrival sent our little community into a frenzy. Raven tried to convince him that black was the new beige, while Tinfoil Tim attempted to recruit him for his latest conspiracy theory about sentient dust bunnies. I found myself in the unenviable position

of trying to explain our society’s merits through an impromptu tap dance routine. Needless to say, Zorp was not impressed.

As Zorp meticulously documented our every quirk and oddity, we realized we needed to pull out all the stops to save our unconventional paradise. We hatched a plan so outrageous, it just might work: Operation Normcore. The idea was to convince Zorp that our weirdness was actually the height of normalcy in this part of the galaxy.

We staged elaborate scenes of everyday life that were anything but normal. Tinfoil Tim led a seminar on proper tinfoil hat folding techniques, touting it as essential protection against cosmic rays. Raven organized a midnight picnic for our shadow-dwelling friends, complete with pitch-black foods and conversations held entirely in whispers. I taught a masterclass on using interpretive dance to file tax returns.

To our amazement, Zorp began to buy into it. His clipboard-tapping slowed, and we caught him nodding along during a particularly spirited debate about the merits of wearing socks on one’s ears to improve telekinetic abilities.

By the end of his visit, Zorp was sporting his own tinfoil hat and attempting to communicate with us through a series of awkward body contortions. As Zorp prepared to leave, he declared our planet “boringly normal” and recommended we be left alone to continue our “utterly unremarkable” lives. We barely managed to keep straight faces as we waved goodbye to his departing spaceship, which we had secretly covered in glitter

and googly eyes as a parting gift.

With the threat of GBONE behind us, we celebrated our victory the only way we knew how: with a planet-wide party featuring Frankenfruit smoothies, shadow puppet comedy routines, and a dance-off judged by our six-legged knitting friends. As I watched my fellow misfits revel in their weirdness, I realized that we had created something truly special here on New Hell’s Kitchen. We had built a home where being different wasn’t just tolerated, it was the norm.

Our little victory over Zorp and GBONE became the stuff of legend, whispered about in hushed tones during our annual Backwards Day parade. But life on New Hell’s Kitchen waits for no alien, and soon enough, we were back to our delightfully bizarre routines. Tinfoil Tim, emboldened by his brush with interstellar fame, launched a new venture: a dating app for conspiracy theorists called “Illumina-date.” Its slogan, “Because

the truth is out there, and so is your soulmate,” quickly became the talk of the town. Meanwhile, Raven opened a boutique selling “pre-haunted” clothing, perfect for those who wanted to skip the hassle of cultivating their own spectral fashion advisors.

As for me, I found myself inspired by our close call with normalcy. I started a support group for recovering conformists, helping them embrace their inner weirdos through unconventional therapies like extreme origami and synchronized sneezing. Our first success story was a former accountant who now makes a living as a professional cloud whisperer.

But our triumph over GBONE had unforeseen consequences. Word spread through the cosmos about our “utterly unremarkable” planet, and soon we became an intergalactic tourist destination for aliens seeking the most mundane vacation spot in the universe. We quickly adapted, offering guided tours of our “average” sights, like the upside-down skyscraper district and the quantum petting zoo.

As I watched a group of tentacled tourists ooh and aah over our annual Invisible Parade, I couldn’t help but chuckle. We’d saved our weird little world by convincing others it was normal, only to become a beacon for those seeking to escape the ordinary. In the weirdest corners of New Hell’s Kitchen, it seemed, the only constant was change—and the occasional rain of neon-colored fish, of course.

Our newfound fame as the galaxy’s most “normal” abnormal destination brought its own set of challenges. The influx of extraterrestrial tourists led to some amusing cultural clashes. For instance, our local diner had to expand its menu to include dishes like “Quantum Quiche” and “Singularity Soup” to cater to beings with non-linear digestive systems.

Tinfoil Tim’s “Illumina-date” app unexpectedly became a hit among the alien visitors, leading to some truly out-of-this-world romances. We even established an interspecies marriage counseling service, run by a former circus contortionist who’d

found her true calling in bending the rules of intergalactic relationships. Meanwhile, I became an unwitting diplomat. My support group for recovering conformists caught the attention of a delegation from the planet Monotonia, where being unique was considered a capital offense. They sought tips on how to spice up their society without causing mass panic. My advice? Start small—maybe with mismatched socks.

Raven’s pre-haunted clothing boutique expanded to include a line of “post-apocalyptic chic” wear, popular among time travelers who wanted to blend in during their visits to various doomsday scenarios. It wasn’t uncommon to see sharply dressed individuals disappear in a flash of light, only to reappear moments later covered in neon slime and wearing satisfied grins.

As for GBONE, we received word that our little planet had inspired a revolution in their ranks. Our successful resistance had led to a schism within the organization, with a splinter group forming GFUN (Galactic Federation for Unorthodox Novelty). They now dedicate themselves to preserving and celebrating the weirdest corners of the universe. Their first order of business? Declaring our town an intergalactic heritage site for “exemplary oddballery.”

The local economy boomed as a result of our newfound cosmic fame. Conspiracy theorists flocked to our streets, setting up impromptu talks on street corners about how the aliens were actually time-traveling humans from the future trying to prevent the invention of pineapple pizza. The theory gained traction when a group of tentacled tourists was caught attempting to sabotage the local pizzeria’s pineapple supply.

Our annual Weirdness Festival became a multiplanetary affair, with competitions like “Most Improbable Life Form” and “Best Interdimensional Talent.” The winning act, a quartet of sentient gas clouds performing a barbershop harmony while shape-shifting into various kitchen appliances, brought the house down—literally. We’re still rebuilding the community center.

The town’s resident mad scientist, Dr. Quark, found himself in high demand among the alien visitors. His “Probability Manipulator” became the must-have accessory for beings looking to bend reality just a smidge. Side effects included spontaneous tap dancing and an inexplicable craving for pickled herring.

As for me, I found myself penning an intergalactic bestseller: “How to Embrace Your Inner Weirdo: A Drag Queen’s Guide to Universal Eccentricity.” It’s been translated into 7,492 languages, including three that consist entirely of interpretive dance moves. The royalties have allowed me to finally pursue my dream of opening a combination laundromat/quantum physics lecture hall/ice cream parlor.

Who knew that our little town’s dedication to weirdness would end up saving not just the overlooked peoples of Earth, but the entire concept of individuality across the cosmos? As I sit here, sipping my “Schrödinger’s Shake” (it’s simultaneously brain-freeze inducing and lukewarm until you observe it), I can’t help but feel a sense of pride. We didn’t just resist conformity…

We turned it into an interstellar art form.

Lawrence Dagstine is a native New Yorker and speculative fiction writer of close to 30 years. He has placed over 500 short stories in online and print periodicals during that period of time. He has been published by houses such as Damnation Books, Steampunk Tales, Wicked Shadow Press, Black Beacon Books, Farthest Star Publishing, Calliope Interactive, and Dark Owl Publishing (with which he has a new book out called The Nightmare Cycle). Visit his website, for publication history past and present, at: www.lawrencedagstine.com

Copyright © 2024 by Lawrence Dagstine

Published by Orion's Beau