Sexual Orientation (select one)

• Heterosexual
• Homosexual
• Okay, so it’s 1999 and The Mummy is in theaters and everyone is falling in love with men and women and eyeliner as thick as the lid of a sarcophagus and all the teens are doodling on their notebooks in loopy cursive, Mr. Rachel Weisz’s Belted Tanktop, and Mrs. Brendan Fraser’s Center-Part Bangs, and Arnold Vosloo’s Shaved Head and the small towns of America aren’t so small when you sit in the dark with desert stretching past the horizon, and we all see the movie every weekend, tickets are cheap if you smuggle in your own snacks, cargo pants pockets stuffed with Skittles, and the ticket taker doesn’t notice because he’s making eyes at the cardboard cutout of Brendan, we all are, we all want to be all four lips and two tongues inside the big kiss at the end, want to be every locust buzzing out of Imhotep’s unhinged jaws, we have no words for what we feel, know only that something inside us has opened up like double doors blown from their hinges by the force of our newly untombed need