An Incomplete and Growing List of People Who Still Owe Me An Apology

The producers of Global Guts for allowing the announcer to continuously man-splain to the female referee.

Neil Ricard for punching me in the face in 6th grade because I told him his clumsiness disqualified him from playing basketball with us.

People who wear bandanas.

My 11 year-old self for believing that piano was too effeminate to excel at.

My dad for buying me a birthday gift at the Bangkok airport.

Anyone who urged me to watch the musical Evita.

My 17 year-old self for not coming out early enough for the next gay kid at my high school to have had a role model.

The frat boy who told me that liberals are just conservatives who haven’t grown up yet.

My 19 year-old self for assuming alcohol would make straight people like me more.

The writers of Love Actually for hoodwinking us into cherishing an intrinsically sexist film.

My 22 year-old self for judging people whose coming-out journeys seemed easier than mine.

People who think living in New York makes them inherently interesting.

My 26 year-old self for not understanding that fat-shaming is externalized self-loathing.

Mariah Carey for destroying our faith in the longevity of vocal abilities.

My 28 year-old self for caving to social pressure to party hard and often.

The guy I met in Istanbul who made me overpay for an underused Ukranian prostitute.

My current self to my future self because it took me this long to know who I am.

Literally all Canadians.