So, now you’ve had to put up with me for like two separate columns (lol sorry). But still, you’re back for more! I thoroughly believe I am here solely because no one else submitted a column, but nevertheless I am so glad I get to subject you to my absurdity once more. This week, I would like to bring everyone’s attention to a real concern of mine. Is anyone else out there worried that no one likes Bobby from Queer Eye (i.e. my life)? Bobby has the hardest job. I love Antoni with all of my being but cutting up an avocado is not the most complicated of endeavors, whereas Bobby has to redesign an entire freaking house in like 2.3 days after knowing the homeowner for approximately seven minutes. Yet, I still find myself wooed by the bomber jackets and pomade, and taking dear Bobby for granted. But I do love him—I’m just so easily distracted by chukka boots and french tucks.

I also want to bring the discussion of fashion back to Grinnell. My same friend, who last column we discussed because she thinks there’s an arts and crafts side of the Grill, fought me on whether flannels are gay this week. Granted, anyone can wear a flannel, but you cannot take flannels away from the lesbians. Our lumberjack essence is one of the only ways we communicate. If a lesbian falls down in the forest, not wearing a flannel, then did it really happen? I completely understand that tons of non-queer individuals wear flannels, but this static confuses my gaydar. It’s like the use of cellphones on an airplane—it messes with instrumentation but everyone still does it anyway. I would like to point out that this flannel infatuation is merely a pattern that I have observed, and from from my extensive background in science, I can tell you that correlation does indeed imply causation so. Argue with them apples.

I really enjoy curating the outfits of everyone around me to be as gay as possible at all moments. This can mean walking up to anyone in the Grill and just rolling the sleeves of their long sleeve shirt, or just sitting on the ground in the dinning hall to cuff the pant legs of someone’s skinny jeans. As a sporto, I unknowingly turn people’s hats backwards just so they look a little tiny bit more gay. But I don’t tell them why — I just pursue my own gay agenda subconsciously at every opportunity. Sometimes I’m tempted to do this to people who I don’t even know, but I also don’t understand why I have this urge. It’s like I am trying to convey a secret message through clothing symbols that only the gays understand. But why do I feel like everyone needs to embrace these symbols?

In other fashion news, I’ve really been feeling the tie and sweater look for work. I think this human tried to hit on me at this party (still very unclear to me) and I panicked and handled it horridly. I started talking about bolo ties, the national neckwear of Arizona. So now I can’t tell if I should (a) go hide under a rock (a warm rock with Netflix) for the next six, to nine years, (b) wear exclusively bolo ties every day for the rest of my human life to confuse the party-goer, or (c) never again adorn another neck accessory for the rest of my young life. All decisions are obviously final, and I am full of gay panic yet again. So that’s what’s new with me. I will accept donations for the purchase of joggers, bomber jackets or bolo ties at this time to help me cope with the awkwardness which is my life and constant curse. Thank you all for your time and truest sympathies. #retailtherapy(andChipotle)ismylife

—Gaylord Phoenix