Christ, why the fuck do ex-lesbians feel the need to share their stories? And why does the New York Times print more articles about ex-lesbians than current ones?

In Sunday's New York Times there's a miserable piece by Karen Hartman that's ostensibly about how Vermont lets any LGBT folks marry but won't let them divorce unless they live in the state. Which naturally turns Ms. Hartman's lesbian partner -- who I'm guessing at some point she must have loved, though she doesn't mention it -- into the ball and chain around her now-heterosexual leg.

With some effort, Ms. Hartman manages to break the doomed union, and she thoughtfully enumerates the happiest days of her ex-lesbian life:

1. Getting married to a wonderful man.
2. Getting a divorce from that bitch.

If you don't want to read this article -- and you shouldn't, unless you have problems with low blood pressure -- the first eighty paragraphs are about how much this heterosexual chick wants to dump the Sapphic baggage she's been saddled with and marry the answer to a woman's prayers named "Todd." You can almost picture the moms of LBGTs everywhere clutching their rosaries and squealing, "Oh, Wally, there's still hope!"

This sad sack ends her passive-aggressive brag by tossing pitiful little crumbs to all us non-reformed homos. We shouldn't be second-class citizens! she says. That's truly awful. She'd do something about, but she's busy getting boned by a real man.

Take comfort in knowing she's still on our side, though she's probably picking out china patterns as we speak:

At long last, same-sex couples across New York are picking out china and calling the caterers, preparing to plight their troths as soon as next Sunday. I am grateful, relieved and, yes, even a tiny bit proud to be just another hasbian with a husband, cheering them on.

What a great piece. What an interesting woman. And I'll cheer her on, too, even though I'm an ex-asshole.