Past/Future!

Dreams of early adolescence don’t always come true.  If they did, I’d probably be banging supermodels in a spaceship while enjoying a bucket of Original Recipe with my robotic hand.  (Un)fortunately, that never happened.  Nor did the dreams of riding a dinosaur through town come true.  Obviously, the dreams about tropical islands, ropes, the Irish, and the one about gigantic nitrogen molecules (they were everywhere, but were at least a nice shade of blue) also failed to deliver.  One dream did come true, it seems.  I did have a dream about becoming a girl and that seems to be working out pretty well for me.

We’ll just skip over the details of the dream mostly because they don’t make any sense.  It’s a pretty common kind of dream for folks in my position.  You can probably guess the theme of the dream, and you can fill in the details from there.  Of course, as a young girl observing her incorrect body from more or less a third person perspective during the day and only having the correct parts in dreams, I was remarkably confused.  Come to think of it, that confusion might have been why sixth grade went so poorly.  This dream repeated over and over, probably several times a week, and continued for years.  I don’t really remember too many dreams, but this one I can still run through pretty accurately.

Yeah, puberty was awful for most and I’m not going to minimize or trivialize anyone’s trauma by having a pissing match over whose puberty was more terrible.  Folks whose gender matches their sex (the terminology here is cis-, which of course acts as counter to trans- (mmm, stereochemistry)) got their own special set of problems.  I didn’t realize why I felt so alone on that day in sixth grade when the boys went here and the girls went over there and watched a special video.  Probably because I was.  I might have been alone and weird during the day, but in dreams at least I was right and comfortable.  It was strangely traumatic to wake up from those dreams, where things made sense, and realize it was just a dream and that I still had the same stupid parts I went to sleep with.

Considering this dream, I probably should have seen this coming.  Of course, hindsight is a glass house one shouldn’t walk under a ladder to get to.  I think that’s how that saying goes.  Pretty sure, yeah.  Anyway, I’m not too interested in reliving that puberty through words here, though.  I got a new puberty to worry about.  I still wake up in the morning with said stupid parts downtown, but now there are two more significant parts a bit further north.  Uptown, if you will.  Usually, I don’t notice them right away in the morning unless I roll over too fast, or my arm pinches one of them, or they just feel like they’re being run over by a large truck for absolutely no apparent reason.  There has got to be better ways to greet the day than to have one breast on fire and the other exploding in rapid succession from the inside.  On the plus side, I only wake up in pain four or five days a week, so it could be worse.

I looked back a bit and noticed, with a peculiar fondness for the past, that my biggest complaint several weeks ago was just itchiness where things were growing and changing.  At least back then I knew what to expect.  Now, it’s just like rolling a die with middle fingers addressed to me on five of the six sides.  Far more pain than anything else, really.  Since we are in polite company, the face of the die that isn’t angry with me won’t be discussed.  Well, ok, maybe a little.  Let’s just leave it at this: I had no idea a human body could do that.  Wow.

New fantastic amazing tricks aside, I have finally started doing a bit of voice work.  Imagine, if you will, the sound of one hundred crickets chirping slightly too close to your head without even the pretense of synchronization.  Got that?  Now raise it an octave and punch yourself in the ear repeatedly.  That is how my voice sounds when I practice.  Oddly enough, I felt my old voice to be worse.  Apparently, I prefer discordant disharmony and aural trauma to my boy voice.  It’s probably not near as bad as I make it out to be here, but it is probably even worse and it is awful and there are probably orphans crying somewhere because of my attempts at voice work.

Also, as of today, I’ve been on hormone replacement therapy for 10 weeks.  It’s been 70 days since I told testosterone to go blow it out his ear.  I have plans for the three month mark.  You’ll see.

A Brief Change of Pace.

Mirrors and I have had an interesting relationship over the years.  I used to avoid them because they lied, but since they were everywhere, I just had to kind of put up with it.  Even glass windows at curious angles would reflect back at me the appearance I never felt comfortable with.  If there was an interaction with a mirror to be had, I made sure it wouldn’t last.  I also rarely made eye contact with the boy I saw in the mirror.  It’s not polite to stare at strangers.

I didn’t shy away from cameras just to be funny, either.  I didn’t want photographic evidence.  I didn’t want folks to look back at the pictures later because I knew it wasn’t right.  In every picture taken I felt like a liar, and every picture I saw of me, I never saw me.  I only saw a boy, always awkward and looking like he didn’t belong.  Just a stranger to me, looking into the camera, surrounded by my friends and family.

I never really looked at pictures or reflections of myself.  Honestly, I couldn’t.  I didn’t see the point.  Mirrors and images are supposed to reveal yourself to yourself.  You are supposed to learn from mirrors.  Pictures were meant to help you remember happy events from the past.  Except I never saw myself in any of them.  Entire decades of pictures, and I wasn’t in a single one.

I hope you, dear reader, will never feel that way.  If you have, I hope those days are far far behind you.

It’s difficult for me to get across exactly the feelings I lived with for entirely too long.  On one hand, it seems too broad to squeeze into a single metaphor or one story.  On the other, honestly, it’s really not easy for me to think back on it for too long.  I didn’t realize at the time how terrible I felt.  There was no escape from those horrible feelings.  I just accepted that being attacked on all sides by my own brain was just the way it was, and there was no sense in complaining because it didn’t matter anyway.

No one should ever have to live the way I did for those many years.  Ever ever ever.  No one deserves to feel like a stranger in their own skin.  It’s a terrible thing to feel like you inadvertently invaded a body that’s actively trying to get you out.  At the time, deep in the depths of gender dysphoria, there feels like there is no escape.  This isn’t unique to this issue, of course, but it’s terrifying just the same.  It’s not a mistake that can be blamed on anyone or anything, and that makes it worse.  There is no outward target for your rage and confusion and depression at that point, so it gets focused inward.  There’s nowhere else for it to go.

That’s probably why I was an alcoholic for a few years.

I didn’t realize how bad it was until I had started on the path of escape.  I couldn’t.  If I would have fully processed the hopelessness and desperation and futility of my situation back then, I would have been one of the 41% of transgendered people who attempt suicide.  In this case, I just kept burying and burying, hoping it would be enough.  I knew one day everything I was trying to hide would be too large to cover, but it was all I could do.  I didn’t feel I had any choice.

Relationships with friends were strained because I was trying to hide so much of myself, and I lost the friendship of several good people along the way.  I have found many good friends in the past few years, and they have stayed with me despite the waves of dysphoria getting more intense and coming more often.  I hope to repay their kindness for helping me out during those rough times.

I have decided, by committing to my transition, that I will be happy.  Through my transition, I have made up my mind to never ever feel that way again.  Turns out I was a fantastic actress until a few months ago.  I had fooled everyone into believing I was a boy.  My disguise was so complete, I had fooled myself in the process as well.  However, such acting never brought me any joy or benefit, so it’s time to hang up the costume and the stage name and never use them ever again.  I have a choice and a freedom now and I owe it to so many to start living and stop lying.

This Christmas, we are away from family due to circumstances we didn’t really plan for.  We have some good friends near who we will be sharing the season with.  I have my brave, fantastic, amazing lovely assistant, and for the first time in years, she has me.  The actual me, without masks and without lies.  This Christmas, I am without so much of the pain that I used to defined me for far too long.  This really is my first holiday season not wearing my costume and not keeping up the charade and not lying to everyone around the table with my appearance and actions.  For those not here with me, there will be pictures.  Not pictures of an awkward, scared, confused boy, though.  Of me.  Now that I am starting to show up in these pictures, I hope you, dear reader, can see me also.

Anyway, it’s not my first Christmas, but it might as well be.  It’s good to be free.

Name/No Name/Name!

Names are kind of weird, huh?  Just a string of letters.  Of course, names are words.  Small pieces of speech, pushed together and assigned a target and meaning.  Not too many words, though, resonate with an individual more strongly than their own name.  As kids grow, the meaning of their name expands to be not only a reference to themselves, but a single word representation of their thoughts and actions.  Somewhere along the way, the person makes their name their own.

If a person learns the word avocado before having knowingly perceived an avocado, the word is just an empty handful of syllables.  At that point, that person’s impression of an avocado is based solely on high level processes inferred from the source of the word.  Was it spoken to the individual as a danger or threat?  Was it spoken to emphasize the wonders of the avocado?  Without direct perception, the individual only learns about the avocado from others, be it from books or people around them.

It could probably safely be argued that knowledge concerning avocados is based in fact.  Excepting those looking to advance an anti-avocado agenda, it can be assumed that there is significant truth in the information shared about avocados.  Indeed, direct perception of an avocado would reinforce or debunk those qualities heretofore described.  Post-identification, the avocado converts from four syllables in a row to all number of qualities and characteristics held by the avocado.

Identification of a person can kind of run along these same lines.  Perception of self is loose and dynamic, making it difficult to pin down in the early years.  Here, a name is just a word with very fluid definitions.  Of course, this sense becomes more solid as time goes on, but continues to be fluid to at least some degree.  As personal traits and actions become more individual, a person’s name takes on those qualities, as well as being a signifier for that individual.

As an example, <boy name> doesn’t just refer to my person, but also past actions and activities.  Just as your name doesn’t just mean you.  When thought of, people don’t exist in a vacuum.  A name brings to mind not only the perception of an individual, but also unavoidably their actions.

What happens when an individual, through various changes in life, has a need to change their first name?  For those who knew the individual before the change, ideas and characteristics are carried over to the new name.  Even if the changing individual wishes to leave certain parts behind, it is not up to them.  Barring extreme circumstances, there is no tabula rasa stage.  Only a hope in the changing individual that present and future actions and activities can make old perceptions fall into obsolescence.

As I am currently in transition, with progress moving along remarkably quickly but well, I also need to look ahead to changing my name.  I look back and know I did some things well, some things poorly, and some things were out of my control.  However, I’m not looking for a blank slate.  My past is mine, for better or worse, and it would be foolish and inappropriate to ignore.

The official name change will be coming along sooner rather than later by all measures and appearances.  At that point, and indeed starting now with the introduction, I hope that folks will not forget the past many years.  I hope that folks don’t just erase and forget what I did throughout my relationship with them.  I hope that folks will understand.  I have a need to grow into a new name soon.  Right now, only a first name is decided.  The rest has changed around some recently, and there are ideas for what I’d like, but right now only the first name is final.  All three names will change in time, not to leave the past behind but more to show that the changes are that significant.

I cannot pretend to be able to control how I was seen in the past or will be seen in the future.  I can only try my best, and ask people to keep a close eye on me.  I have a lot to learn.

-S

Attraction; or Who You Lookin' At, Willis?

So, as the transition progresses, old ideas start changing.  This is a good thing, because most of my old ideas were quite rubbish and needed to be fixed up a bit.  Or, in most cases, scrapped altogether due to unsalvageable parts.  In fact, I was recently made aware of one such thought after being asked a wonderful question by a good friend from long ago.  Though, strictly, the question was directed at my lovely assistant, I took it and made it my own.  Much like a three foot tall Pikachu that started as someone else’s.  Neglect your Pikachu long enough, dammit, and I will steal it away to fantastic lands.  Besides, my giant Snorlax needed company anyway.

Anyway, the question had to do with attraction.  I did a little comparison in my head between previous feelings and emerging ideas, and came up with a few differences.  These might not be across the board, mostly because I started with pretty fluid ideas of attraction, but I think it’s pretty accurate.  Of course, this probably only applies to me, but I’m sure there is a lesson about love and not caring about labels or organs or awkwardness in here somewhere.  It’s probably after a bunch of nonsense here.  Yeah, the lesson is probably down there.  Unless I forget, in which case I will make sure you get a wonderful story about a nun and an avocado.  Anyway, you look around, and if you find the very important lesson, I’ll put a gold star next to your name in my grade book.

It seems to me, upon deep reflection, that previously the attraction I felt toward others was more object oriented.  You know, like C++, but much simpler and with fewer if-then-else loops.  Personality was important, I guess, but it was more about parts.  The whole (please note the ‘w’ there) didn’t really matter, and could be overlooked if there were strong aspects to make up for any deficiencies.  Horrible personality?  Didn’t like Blazing Saddles?  Only have seven toes?  Whatever, as long as they had a lot of the right parts in the right configuration.  Think of it this way.  Imagine an Xmas where you receive the following: a mayonnaise jar of rain water, a figurine of Sgt. Slaughter made entirely out of toenail clippings and peanut butter, a felt painting of Zoidberg from Futurama, and a stiff kick in the shin.  Is this an acceptable Xmas?  Back then it sure would have been.  Even though, given the selection of gifts, you are obviously not wanted at that particular Xmas, it is ok to put up with the dirty stares and the ass end of the ham at dinner because you got something you can hang one the mantle.  Despite all the horrible aspects of the event, there is that one good thing to focus on.  The rest is just like a thousand nails on chalkboards in the distance.

This has gotten a bit different, and I think this part will answer said good friend’s question pretty well.  Since I am chock full of estrogen, perhaps one would expect this part of me to change to a more female approach.  That is true, as I have verified with my lovely assistant.  From what I can tell it’s much different now.  When I see someone now, such as in the mall or the burrito place down the way, no longer do I lock my gaze on whatever sticky-outy part(s) they got.  I hardly even pay attention.  This has led to fewer burrito-related accidents and a 95% reduction in dirty stares.  Now, the gestalt is most important.  See above at that Xmas haul, and we’ll compare.  See, now, that is an unacceptable Xmas.  Not even a painting of my favorite thing ever to appear on a television screen could make that better.  I’m sure there is probably a logical extension to this show of differences, but I’ll leave that to you.

Anyway, I think what I am saying in a typical roundabout way is before parts mattered.  Now, and my lovely assistant agrees, the parts aren’t that important.  It doesn’t matter what parts a person has, feelings matter far more.  Such as in my case, I have been assured it doesn’t matter what’s growing where or what is changing.  It just matters that I am who I am.  The rest is just decoration.  Penis?  Breasts?  Both?  Neither?  Who cares?  It’s far more important to care about the other person than take inventory of what they got and how many and where.

Labels are kind of weird, you know.  Here’s a fun thing to think about.  Outwardly right now, due to my (unfortunately) effective stealth mode, me and the missus are a plain ol’ heterosexual couple.  Now, zoom ahead some time using your imagination or LSD or whatever.  How will we appear to others when we are out and about on the town?  We’ll be lesbians.  Near as anyone will be able to tell, we’ll just be two girls who are really into each other.  What about the missus?  She will actually be an out lesbian, and a closet heterosexual.  Noodle that one for a bit, why don’t you?  Of course, I suppose it’s all a matter of definition, but since I’m keeping Axl Rose (my secret service code name for the old Salt Shaker (code for my Personal Cherry Pitter (Penis))) around, I’m going to use that to justify my joke.

 I guess the hip term is pansexual, which I never really understood.  Fruits?  Sure.  Gym sock with mashed potatoes?  Fine, I guess.  Cooking implements, though?  Who knew?  I’ve got a pretty good imagination, but I just can’t see how that would work.  Speaking of which, I now have an experiment to perform.  May science guide my unsteady hand.

Objective #1!

As everyone is making the first turn around the track in the Pronoun 500 (brought to you by the color pink and a handful of glitter), I feel it’s as fine a time as any to introduce a slightly more advanced concept and associated goal.  This will be important later, so please write this down if you are prone to spells of forgetfulness.

So, just a bit about being transgendered real quick.  I don’t think I covered this aspect too well during my initial announcement, nor have I really emphasized it recently.  Trans is for life.  One does not simply pick a point in time to feel like the opposite gender, nor will those feelings stop after sufficient suffering.  I think you can see where this is going.

I did not simply choose a random day to switch teams.  I did not choose to feel like an outcast in my own body one day.  Feeling like a girl did not just seem like a good idea one strange day.  My recognition of the problem/solution was, however, a rather random stroke of luck.  There is a small, special group of you who know the somewhat embarrassing revelation that lead to my need to do this.  Those who don’t know the secret of how I came to this revelation don’t know for a good reason.  A girl must have her secrets.  That’s not the important part here, though.

See, just to keep this simple and of reasonable length, really I’ve always been a girl.  Admittedly, I’ve been a kind of weird looking one, but that’s how it works.  Discovering the issue and moving toward an appropriate remedy, that happens over a kind of shorter time frame.  The issue of feeling like an intruder in your own skin sort of comes with the package, right after object permanence and identification of gender roles.

Don’t think I looked like a girl?  You’re right.  Don’t think I acted like a girl?  Also correct.  Why not?  Because I am a fantastic actress, that’s why.

So, I’m working on it.  There are physical changes, sure.  Those changes are amazing and shall continue to astound for the foreseeable future.  There are also mental changes, which are ten times more amazing than even the physical ones.  Those two, I can do myself.  Social changes, however, isn’t all up to me.

For now, I’m just kind of going to work with you, dear readers.  With the concept I’ve actually always been a girl in place, I ask for you to not think of me as a boy deserting one side and seeking asylum on the other.  Just think of me as having a really late puberty.  For now, though, it’s alright to think of me as <boy name> changed to <girl name> if that’s easier.  Just sort of let the idea that things are finally starting to match up appropriately float around a bit.

Anyway, that’s sort of the long term goal here.  For you fine, upstanding young citizens to just think of me as one of the girls.  Anyway, give it some time, give it some thought, and when in doubt, just consider how you would treat any girl going through puberty.  Minus the weird cyclic stuff, obviously.  The hormones don’t work so well as to grow a uterus, which is good.  I really have no where to put it right now, anyway.

Wang-doodle!

This hormone replacement therapy is the bee’s knees.  The vivid dreams have mostly subsided though, which is too bad because they were pretty cool.  The growing pains have also subsided, but I’m very aware that’s pretty cyclical.  I imagine in a week or so I’ll be back to being in more constant pain from the inevitable expansion.  Though I do complain at great lengths about the persistent dull ache occasionally interrupted by sharper, piercing pain, don’t listen to me.  I really kind of like the pain.  Not for sadomasochistic reasons at all, but really just because the pain means progress.

Speaking of ‘redistribution of mass in general accordance with conservation of mass*,’ things are moving along swimmingly.  Even in like the last week, my lovely assistant and I have noticed pretty much everything I try on to be better fitting and better filled out.  On one hand, it’s awesome.  On the other, my clothing choices when I am out and about are becoming more and more limited, primarily because compression is becoming less effective and increasingly uncomfortable.

Anyway, given current growth predictions, it looks like going full time or at least part time will be coming sooner than I had originally planned.  There is no date set in stone, but just whenever it seems right and comfortable.  At that point, we’ll see what happens.

Lets talk about this idea of right and comfortable for a bit.  It seems like the sort of goal folks are after, right?  It’s no doubt important to everyone, but especially to those who have felt acute discomfort for any length of time.  Now, keep in mind, this like so much else I’m talking about in this crazy thing, is not binary.  No matter how not right and uncomfortable someone might feel, it could probably always get worse.  The contrary is also true, but where not many folks are inclined to make their situation less comfortable, I would argue that most to many would lean toward improving their situation with regard to being right and comfortable.  I mean, except for those folks who really dig being uncomfortable, but for those individuals being uncomfortable is essentially equal to comfort of course, so just flip the scale and lets not talk about insufferable masochists any further.  Get past the middle point into the positive side (as determined by subjective interpretation of both internal and external environments) and I would imagine that folks would seek to improve along these lines.  The perfect is the enemy of the good, but since this is asymptotic, good is going to have to be good enough.  Now, go eat your peas.

Anyway, there’s no perfect, objective spot to stop trying to improve one’s condition.  It’s all subjective, obviously.  For example, I am significantly more right and comfortable these days.  I am obviously looking to improve upon my already improved person.  Though it would be theoretically easier to slide back down the scale, there is minimal benefit to that.  So, when does this improvement end?

I’ve heard a few folks ask, in essence, ‘how far are you going to go?’  Usually it begins with a question about the fate of my wang-doodle.  Lots of folks are curious about my wang-doodle these days.  Didn’t hardly come up in conversation once in all these many years, but now people seem acutely interested.  I’ve always been one to toot my own horn for pretty much any reason, but now it seems like people aren’t interested in the strange adventures it’s had, but more whether or not I’m going to have it removed, stuffed, and mounted on my future mantle.

I’m not going to rant about the current state of phallotaxidermy for obvious reasons.  However, I will tell you I cannot accurately give you an end point.  It doesn’t really stop anyway.  It’s not like I stop the HRT after a certain point just because I don’t feel as dysphoric as previous.  Besides, it’s not like antibiotics that one stops taking after a while, it’s a much longer endeavor than that.  Besides, not feeling the dysphoria is really what this transition is about.  It’s primarily about just keeping the incongruent, discordant thoughts away so I can feel right and comfortable.  As for a solid end point, I really have no idea.  I’m just kind of along for the ride.

*Technically, conservation of mass is only applicable with isolated or closed systems.  Given that my person is certainly not a closed system, as evidenced by the continual inclusion of material energies, matter conservation is not really a valid method of description here.  We could talk first law of thermodynamics in a kind of round about way here, but you’ve probably got all the equations written down there anyway and don’t need me telling you how thermodynamics apply here.  Anyway, that’s why I said ‘general accordance’ and not ‘strict accordance,’ simply because the latter is false in this case.  Obviously, right?

Name! Pronoun! Alligator!

I’ve been getting some confusion about when folks are to use my new name and pronouns.  So, let this serve as an announcement that an announcement will be announced about an announcement right now that will concern this very issue.  I’ll probably let everyone know personally some time soon, but I have a pill dissolving right now, and anything I say as I try to keep the pill securely under my tongue sounds a lot like I’m trying to order tacos in a bad part of town.  Since I don’t want to call you up and have you mail me a dozen soft shells, I’ll just type it out for now.

First, folks are currently aware of the new names, right?  I will blindly assume yes until I am corrected in writing.  Even then, you better cite some sources, and I don’t mean Wikipedia.  This ain’t undergrad, yo.  By the way, how about you go donate to the old Wikipedia?  Help millions of undergrads pass their intro classes.  Anyway, so you got the new names floating around somewhere, and you are pretty sure using a different pronoun ain’t no thing, I trust.  Good.  So, because everyone seems to be running this race at different speeds, why don’t we just let everyone go nuts with it.  To that end, go on ahead and use either pronoun you choose, but kind of keep in mind that eventually everyone should probably switch over pretty permanently whenever.  I’m not going to enforce a timeframe, but if it’s like 2017 and you’re still referring to me as ‘that strapping young lad over there,’  we’re going to have to chat a bit.

See, I know most folks are moving along here as fast as they can.  Some are pretty far along, some are kind of looking around trying to find a good pace, and a few are still at the starting line/participant turned observer/left for a sandwich real quick.  Either way, I figure with the variety of pacing and my own relative flexibility, each person can just pick whatever name/pronoun they feel comfortable with.  No one gets rushed along or pressured to keep up, and it gives everyone a generous handful of months to adjust at their own speed.

I’ve been recently informed that this is kind of a unique situation for people.  Of course, I appreciate that it’s a bit unique for some, and I know certain people would like me to know it’s kind of strange and potentially borderline weird.  To that end, you probably don’t have to remind me that this is a pretty unique situation.  I’m pretty aware.  I very well know this is unique and while I do not wish to downplay how weird it is for you, it’s substantially more weird for me.  I know you have to adjust your name/pronoun use when referring to me, but I also need to adjust for when people refer to me as such.  I can’t really say which is more strange, but to be fair, I’m growing boobs and you are (most likely) not, so at least in that regard, I’m winning the weird race.

Wednesday Night, Coffee Night!

Previous to being whisked away to the coffee shop, I was telling one of the folks sharing our curious living arrangement about several of my comical past failures.  You may or may not have heard my many varied stories of self-abuse and missed opportunities, but trust me, they are entertaining at least and being funny is one of my favorite things.  Which explains why I do not keep the company of republicans or religious figures.  They wouldn’t know a joke if it bit them on the dick while wearing a clown nose.  Who’s wearing the clown nose here, you ask?  Hell, you pick.  Think of this joke as a ‘choose -your-own-adventure’ book, but without having to pick whether to sacrifice your dog to Satanists or commit arson.  I always got to that page, and I always felt I picked wrong.  Sorry, Whiskers.

Looking back, these stories of failure and regret tend to have one thing in common.  Each one of my finest stories has my penis as either star, co-star, or main writer.  I usually end up as the grip or cameraman, playing second fiddle to my first fiddle.  In fact, a quick rundown of my three favorite stories, here indicated by a single word (Colorado, Modem, 115) were in fact centered squarely on my gentleman vegetables, with a running theme of betrayal and confusion by said private produce.  In fact, two other stories only appropriate after the lights go out (Butterfly, Scaffold) also focus on the same, but in a different capacity.

However, since things are on the move, it seems that the shelf life of these stories is approaching.  It may be inconvenient and confusing to share these stories in particular as after a while I must maintain the illusion that I am without the company of Heavy D and the Boys.  I don’t really necessarily I feel I have to adhere to each and every gender norm or expected behavior as a female, but I’m relatively sure referencing one’s own dick as an instrument of failure is surely no way for a lady to talk.  In fact, if you are in a bar or some such, and a lady starts telling you about the qualities and dimensions of their own rock-em-sock-em-robot, be prepared to pay an extra twenty on top of the standard fee(s) later in the hotel room.*

Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is I can’t be all spreading most of these stories around.  They’d raise more questions than spirits, you know?  Well, dear reader, that just means that they are special stories and you are lucky to have heard them.  If you have not heard them, there is a darn good reason.  Probably because I’d get a lecture and a disappointed look from you, you square.

*Yeah, I know that joke about prostitution is in poor taste, but them’s the breaks.  I don’t like it any more than you do, but I have an audience to entertain.  Besides, those who have required the services of professionals in this regard know what’s up.  Money for nothin’ and your chicks for free?  Not if they’re beating you down the tape measure, that’s for damn sure.**

**This is probably inadvertently really offensive to someone, but the image in my head created by this idea makes me giggle so it stays.  People are too easily offended these days, anyway.  However, if you are displeased with the joke, I’ll send you a refund for the full cost of reading the blog posthaste.***

***I’m not actually sending refunds.

Sea Otters!

Hello, everyone.  How is everyone?  That’s good to hear/I’m sorry about your dog/See, that’s why you add a little Listerine to the ice before blending (please circle the most appropriate response for your current situation).  You know what would be fun to write about?  Sex.  Though you probably know the ins and outs, it can be a slippery slope here.  So, let’s dive right in and get our hands dirty.

Let’s start with something real simple.  This one is mostly for republicans, religious figures, and people from the Midwest.  There is remarkable variety in sexual preference, far more than the two or three stops that folks tend to harp on.  Instead of thinking of sexual preference as a light switch, visualize it as a dimmer switch.  Sure, it can be really bright or all the way dark, but there are a million discrete stops between the two, right?  See, I like to think of myself almost exactly between the all dark and full bright, but maybe slightly rotated toward the dark side.  You know, like when you are at a restaurant and your food comes and it’s like 7:30 and the lights dim and you try and get a forkful of mashed potatoes but due to the suddenly poor lighting, you end up more or less trying to shovel some of the tablecloth in your mouth?  Kind of like that, but in a sexy way and with potatoes optional.

In words and numbers, let’s say I’m more or less a 55%/45% split most days, weighted ever so slightly toward the opposite sex.  For those keeping score at home, there you go.

So, now that your suspicions are confirmed, allow me to assure you that the hormones have not changed my opportunistic, pseudo-indecisive ways.  Continuing along this topic, it is accurate to say I ain’t doing this for sexual reasons.  Were I cross dressing, I may not be able to make the same claim.  As it is, I ain’t so I ain’t.  If I thought the field behind the barn needed to be prepared for harvest, I would ensure that an adequately trained individual would indeed be arranged to do just that.  Does that make sense?  I hope so, because my grandma is reading this, and that is as much detail as I am going into about that.

I’m just assuming a little bit here that perhaps a non-zero amount of you is entertaining the notion that I’m doing this for reasons directly related to sex.  Well, you’re wrong.  Here’s a very reasonable and prudent explanation concerning your horrible wrongness for no other reason than that I am very petty.  Sex drive and such is pretty much fueled by testosterone.  This isn’t an exact correlation, but it’s close enough to make me right.  So, if I’m blocking some 98% of my testosterone, do you suppose I care as much about sex as previous?  See, it doesn’t make much sense to say, ‘oh man, being a girl is going to be so awesome and I am totally going to be into it all the time,’ right?  Because the associated ideas and apparatuses (apparati?) are not quite as, um, urgent.  Honestly, it’s more like, ‘well, I could probably dig it, but there are pictures of sea otters on the internet so I’ll do it later probably.’  Besides, if it were the case that the hydraulics fired up every time I wore girl clothes, I would not make for a convincing girl.  Since I ain’t too keen right now in surgically reversing my own pubic polarity, it’s a darn good thing I’m not transitioning for sexual reasons.

Because of comically ironic circumstances, I’m going to stop here.  I leave you now with this short series of thoughts from earlier this afternoon.

Random sad thought: I cannot presently or in the near future show off whatever witty/clever/thoughtful shirt I am wearing because doing that would show my witty/clever/thoughtful breasts.

Random happy thought: Sometime later, I will be able to show off my repertoire of witty/clever/thoughtful shirts in 3D.

Perception!

Scene: Somewhat minor commercial street though a more-or-less ordinary town.  Two lane road bordered by sidewalks with trees planted in the middle of repurposed sewer grates and maybe a fire hydrant kind of near the corner over there.  Small shops with assorted wares displayed in the front windows.  It’s one of those afternoons on a weekend that's just about smack dab in the middle of spring.  The temperatures allow, for the first time in months, folks to be out and about without bulky coats and scarves and the like.  Cars go by on the road at the appropriate speed and at curiously regular intervals.  The sidewalks are just as active as people move without the added weight of winter wear.

Now, we’ll take a bit of a still shot of this idyllic scene, why not.  Let’s identify one person in particular and label them as ‘A.’  This person, right in front of a shop selling business attire at business casual prices, is walking east.  A second person we’ll label ‘B’ is on the same sidewalk but moving counter to A a couple storefronts down.  A candy store or something, probably.  Neither A nor B are looking in the shops they are near, but are more concerned with keeping with flow of foot traffic and not accidentally making contact with any fellow passing pedestrians.

Advance the scene just a little bit and we have both A and B, among with all the other people around that don’t deserve letters, a few yards closer to each other.  Somewhere in these few seconds, there is a recognition.  Not of each other personally, as A and B have never met previous to this, but of the other person as, more or less, a moving object to avoid.  So, along with seeing each other as a future obstacle, the brains of each A and B use some low level processing to form a first impression of the other.

Here is where it gets a little muddled.  Right after the low level brain activities, information gathered there is moved to the newer parts of the brain.  This is where the initial impression of ‘probably won’t eat you’ from the low level parts will expand from that first established axiom.  High level functioning then fills in the blanks about the other person using fancy tricks like inference, prejudices, and extrapolation.  From there, it goes to yet more sophisticated brain areas to determine whether or not verbal and/or non-verbal contact should be initiated and so on.  To keep that part simple, it’s more or less three short hops and a handful of chemical messengers from ‘will mostly likely not eat or dismember me’ to ‘I should buy that person a drink.’  Let’s go back about a hop and a half here and use our high level processes to ponder ‘what comes first?’

After the initial assessment of limited danger, what’s the first thing the high level processing assigns to the other person?  It’s probably a safe bet to rule out a decision about whether their eye color matches their shoes and the like.  After all, we just got done assuring ourselves they are not a danger to us, therefore we probably don’t give a tinker’s dam about their ability to coordinate colors.  That’s for later, potentially.  Characteristics such as relative height (will I be crushed underfoot?) and relative weight (will I have to move across the street to make room?) are pretty quickly introduced and pretty quickly forgotten, provided these fall within accepted limits.  Any gross abnormalities (missing/extra limbs, excessive asymmetry) are noted as well here.  Soon after all that nonsense, the sex of the other person is processed.  From there, a million effectively pre-loaded, pseudo a priori bits of knowledge are funneled in.  These bits, formed by previous experience(s) with that sex and other gathered information at present time, fill in the blanks and form a sort of ‘good enough’ impression of the other person.

Now, obviously we cannot build another person’s personality and such based on our own ideas of what that person should be/do/think.  We ain’t even getting into it that much here, mostly because I got other stuff to do this afternoon.  For the low level purposes here, it’s enough to know the other person is not a threat and is male or female (don’t even talk to me about the binary nature of this sort of thing.  If you understood that as a binary, then you know well enough that I’m just playing to the audience here, and you needn’t get all cross with me.  Won’t do you no good no how.  If you didn’t see that as dichotomous, do an experiment for me.  Go on out where there are plenty of people and try not to assign them a sex at first glance.  Go on.  Let me know how that goes).

So, since we’re all kinds of low level, first impression here, I ask you this, dear reader: how does one swap that initial assessment of a stranger’s sex to be the opposite?  What would person B need to exhibit to be seen as the opposite sex by person A?  Don’t worry, this ain’t no quiz.  I got your answer right here.  Given the incredible range of appearance in both sexes, there must be a wide range to fall into, which benefits those seeking counter-identification w/r/t sex.  So, because we can’t all wear a sign urging folks to think of us as one or the other, we all must do what we can to enhance or highlight those characteristics most commonly associated with our desired sex.*

Therefore, if an individual is all about being identified one way or the other to passing folks’ low level processes, they had better ensure that their secondary sex characteristics are all in appropriate order.  Why not primary?  One, go find an anatomy textbook.  Two, because if you wanted to be seen as female and showed someone a pair of ovaries, there’s going to be a boat load of questions you might not want to answer without an attorney present.  For example, if person B wishes to be identified as female, then they must have appropriate shapes and angles indicating just that.

Maybe you’re thinking ‘why the heck does it matter?’  Maybe you’re thinking that you shouldn't have bought swiss instead of cheddar last night.  In regards to the latter, you bought swiss because you are uneducated.  Of course, those actually paying attention here may ask the former, in which case, why indeed?  Why does it matter what a particular person, who you will have very limited contact with and will never express anything to you, thinks your sex is?  Who cares what person A thinks, anyway?  They probably didn’t even finish high school and, by all measures and appearances, smokes too much.

See, it’s one of those things that is way more internal than external.  Person A will most likely never tell person B what sex they initially assigned them.  They’re just passing on a sidewalk, and that ain’t no time to discuss the fluid nature of sex, gender, attraction, and such.**  The terrible thing is, in this example, person B will never know how they are seen by person A.

Expanding this, let’s say person B does have all the secondary sex characteristics of a female, is wearing female-appropriate clothes, and appears to have congruent mannerisms.  Person B has no way, aside from pinning person A against a wall and inquiring directly, to know how they are seen by others.

Anyway, the scene has been held long enough.  Motion continues with person A and person B passing by each other with nary any communication between them.  Primarily, given the lack of contact or communication, this doubt about projected sex is really all on person B.  Person B could continue to doubt and push farther and farther toward female stereotypes in order to be correctly identified more often by other folks’ first impression.  This is asymptotic most likely and probably exhausting after a while.  Or person B could not let the weird forced binary of the subject affect them and be content with a batting average somewhere over .500.  Either way, I guess.

So, I suppose the take home message here is it doesn’t really matter too much how person B is assigned by the automatic reactions of person A.  It only matters how person B is affected by person A potentially assigning person B to one sex or the other in those first fractions of a second.  Person A becomes only relevant as a mirror of sorts, reflecting back person B’s concept of person B.  This is especially true given the complete lack of affirmation or negation from person A.  Dig?

Unless, of course, person A’s high level functioning decides person A ought to ask if they can buy person B a drink.  In that case, someone is in for a surprise after drinks.***

*Hey, yeah, that paragraph was indeed ‘victim to the cis-oppresive idea of gender and sex as binary constructs.’  What can you do?  I got an audience to connect with, and ain’t all of them up in arms about this.  Either way, hate the game, not the playa, yo.

**There, I got the fluidity of sex, gender, and whatever else in there.  Happy?  Good.  Don’t be so pedantic next time, huh?

***Did I just make the easy ‘person B ain’t no weatherman, but person A can expect a few inches tonight’ joke?  Yeah, I went there.  Mostly because it is a solid joke, and as serious as everything is, it ain’t all that serious.

Howdy!

Within the last week, there have been noticeable changes which will hopefully translate to photographic proof on picture day tomorrow.  Aside from literally touching my face, I can’t quite put my finger on what has exactly changed above my neck.  There are definite changes for the better, but as for the metrics and such, I sadly did not keep measurements of things such as total cheek volume or eyebrow buoyancy or any angles of any kind.  I am sadly lax in that regard.  Luckily, I do have some hundreds of pictures, and I think some rudimentary measurements can probably be derived from those.  Excepting for buoyancy, obviously.  We may never know if my eyebrows float any better or worse than previous.

You know, at the right angle and in the right conditions, floating is a lot like flying, at least from the observer’s vantage.  Sometimes, in those particular conditions, it’s hard to tell if an object is floating in air or flying through fluid.  The traditional definitions aren’t always adequate at these angles, and it’s hard to tell the difference.  Or even care.  From below, hundreds of vessels spinning in a tight circle doesn’t really mean too much.  From down there, looking skyward at the motion above, even picking out one portion of the moving whole is impossible.  The constant velocity and the limited availability of good light in this environment means the single is the complete and vice versa.  No one part can be separated, and each of the objects above becomes meaningless.  Each piece of the movement above becomes only a fraction of a radian.  Were the complete circle to come to a stop, or even slow slightly, each part of the motion that is intuitively known but unable to be isolated then becomes its own whole.  The circle would be no more because each piece of angle discontinued its role in that situation.  Each of those would then abandon their part above.  Maybe they would continue to be buoyant on their own.  Maybe the only thing that kept them so far above was their perpetual circular motion as a whole.  In which case, being below as an observer to the whole still trying to tell the difference between floating and flying becomes a pretty dangerous place to be.

Speaking of fluid dynamics, why is suddenly all of my skins quite dry?  For whatever unknown reason to me, lotion is becoming increasingly important.  Where is my water going?  Either way, despite the dryness of skins, I am still increasing in overall skin softness.  This softness has led to several awkward moments, most of which end with curious looks sent my way by inquisitive folks around me.  Little do they know they are welcome to join in the festivities.

Anyway, the seemingly accelerating rate of change is comforting.  For a while, I was almost curious if I was given placebos at the pharmacy as a sort of weird joke.  However, with all of the obvious changes both inside and outside, these pills seem to be the real deal.  Not sure how I’m going to feel when the changes sort of slow down.  I do have several years, yet, though so I don’t fret too often.  I suppose at that point I will be exhausted from it all and probably need a nap.

I feel better!

Why do I feel better?  Because of caffeine, that’s why!  That also means that it’s ‘Random Observance Time!’

1) Who here has had an itch that they couldn’t scratch?  Good, good.  As expected.  Now, who has had that itch in a place that would not be appropriate to scratch in mixed company?  Yeah, I figured that would be the most common.  How about an itch that is just beneath the surface of the skin, but any and all contact with that area of skin that covers said itch elicits such amazing pain and burning that resolving the itch is impossible at best?  Those who have had surgery are probably aware of this.  Also, those experiencing puberty are probably aware of this most terrible itch.  Either way, I feel compelled to take a salad fork to my left nipple to make it stop itching.  I’d probably pass out from pain after a while, which actually resolves several problems at once!

2) I need to drink more coffee more often.  Despite the associated increasing frequency of tinkles, it makes me happy and also makes words go from head to screen, mostly in order.  Sometimes, without coffee, the words just kind of bounce around up there until they fall down the stairs.  Dammit, words!  I told you not to play around those stairs!  Now you’re bleeding all over the new carpet and you took some varnish off the banister.  Your father is going to be so angry when he gets home.  Where is the damn baking soda?  Come on, words, get up, you’re not hurt that bad.  Help me find the damn soap.  You can have stitches after we clean up this puddle you left right where your father puts his shoes.  I guess it’s microwave meatloaf night because now I don’t have time to make a nice meal for the family.

3) See, there are two brothers, Dexter and Simon, who grew up somewhat distanced from each other, but both became powerful generals and kings in their own separate lands.  Though they were indeed strong, they were also kind to the populace which surrounded their towers, situated in the middle of their respective kingdoms.  They also respected the boundaries of their lands and understood the plight of those living outside their borders.  This led to many years of a mutual understanding between the plains and the kingdoms over which Dexter and Simon ruled.  Even though Dexter and Simon may have desired more area or a larger tower from which to observe their lands, they restrained in order to maintain balance in the borderlands.  Indeed, this peace lasted many years, with very few quarrels or disagreements either within or outside of the borders.  Until recently, that is.  Dexter and Simon both received a message allowing for a slow annexation of the surrounding plains.  At first, expansion was slow, as both rulers chose a diplomatic conquest of the newly open lands.  As the expansion of their kingdoms progressed, however, both leaders decided that diplomacy had a time and place which was neither now nor here.  Unfortunately for the borderlands, brothers Dexter and Simon began expanding with speed and alacrity bordering on reckless.  The scholars of the lands would write in secret notes among themselves, hinting at the collapsing restraint of their leaders.  The kings’ plans seemed to the scholars of each land to be nearing an abuse of the balance of power the kings had so carefully maintained since the beginning of formal record keeping.  Indeed, these scholars would prove themselves correct as both of the brothers called for not only expanding their borders, but also an expansion of their towers.  Claiming that with increased lands there would be a need for increased observation, a call to build onto their center towers was put forth unto the people.  Those that refused were made enemies of the state, and those that helped add on to the regal towers knew their own safety required full cooperation and complete subjugation to the wishes of the kings.  To this day, the lands of the brothers continue to expand in all directions without rest.  Indeed, in cooperation with the kings’ wishes and only tenuous consent of the populace, the towers continue to grow.  Though the people of the lands are weary and low on provisions, they continue to assist with the plans of their kings.  It is unknown how far the mad brothers’ quest for land and power will go, and perhaps only those kings of their lands know when to call an end to the expansion unto their towers.  For now, all we can do, all anyone can do, is wait and watch.

See, I do these in sets of three.  There are secret reasons for this.  You don’t get to know the secret until you’re older, so don’t bother asking.

On a more serious note…

To be quite honest, not everything is all peaches and balloons.  There are definite downsides to this whole crazy transition process.  In fact, I’ll share one of the more affecting ones now.  Later, I’ll be more cheerful.

To spare details, let’s say I had occasion tonight to go be around several dozen women of varying ages.  Obviously still pretty firmly in boy mode, pink fingernails aside, I was the only [this sentence has been interrupted by my apparent complete inability to use the word that should go here to refer to myself.  I’ve spent the last twenty minutes sitting here, in a coffee shop with a handful of people around outside of my headphones trying not to cry on my keyboard.  I have only been about 70% successful.  It is apparently beyond my abilities to refer to myself as that now.  I mean, should that word really be used to describe myself?  I have no fucking clue right now.  I’m trying to move away from that label, but at first glance it’s still appropriate I guess.  You know, barring a lengthy explanation to complete strangers, that is sort of my primary classification.  The rest is all secondary and stems from there.  An entire tree, made of the wrong wood stretching out and toward the wrong fucking sky.  The branches keep growing in the wrong direction, expanding in all the wrong places, and the tree is helpless.]  Anyway, as an outlier in near all respects aside from hormone levels, I was acutely aware of my appearance and the obvious first impression of the multitude of strangers around me.

See, the increasingly obvious physical changes are required to be hidden in public.  This is for my own protection right now.  The mental changes, as amazingly positive as they have been over the last six weeks or so, are far less easy to broadcast on first glance.  To that end, boy mode is still woefully successful and no one has incorrectly gendered me in boy mode.  That’s fine.  It takes time.  I can wait.  Secretly though, every day I hope that I will be incorrectly gendered in boy mode.  I wish I could just go out feeling comfortable and appropriate to how I feel.  The waiting is that hardest part.  [I am better now.  I’ve had some coffee.]

So, tell me, dear reader: what happens when one is surrounded by that which one is trying to become?  What happens when the goal of an individual is presented fully and clearly in everyone in a room excepting themselves?  Well, whether or not it’s universal, I’ll tell you what happens.

Impostor syndrome is, in a nutshell, when one is constantly on the brink of being discovered as a fraud.  [Side note: emotions occur with significantly increased speed and force now.  Basically, I have enough estrogen to apparently be remarkably upset remarkably quickly, yet still enough testosterone to feel really bad about this.  Fun fact!]  With every moment there, a hundred opportunities to be called out as a fake came and went.  Every female there, complete with their knowledge of what being female means, could have at any time accused me of infiltrating their space.  There was effectively no possible way for anyone there to know of my trans- status there, but that didn’t stop me from feeling self-conscious and, well, like an impostor.

I guess it’s kind of like this: I want so badly to be accepted by that half of the population as one of their own.  I also want so badly to escape the other half.  I have no affiliation with the male half anymore, aside from a couple of external organs.  I also can’t integrate into the female half for some time, as my appearance and mannerisms fall far short of my own level of comfort to do that.  Somewhere in between but moving in a positive direction is where I’ll be for quite some time.

Anyway, I moved among them, trying not to make eye contact or be in anyone’s way.  I tried to blend in to the background, as is my defense mechanism is such situations.  Being obviously different made that difficult.  Luckily, there was wine.  [I oughtn’t drink too much, but I completely forgot my afternoon estradiol, so my liver was probably looking for something to occupy its time, anyway.  This means I am significantly more emotional than baseline (which probably explains some of this), and also means that I have to take two of them tonight.  Subsequently, that means I am going to have significant problems tonight trying sleep in a position that will not cause great pain (see, I’ve observed that between T+1 hour to T+3 hour of taking the estradiol is apparently prime breast building time.  This process is painful even without compressing them with my body weight or having them weighed down by blankets.)  We’ll see what happens.]

That wonderfully timely glass of red probably saved me from a panic attack.  Either way, it was a pretty unique experience.  In a few months, I’ll look back on this and laugh (hopefully).  Also, because I am a fool for punishment, I’ll probably go along to the next one of these crazy things.  If nothing else, I’ve learned from this crazy transition process that sometimes pain and progress go hand in hand.

Stuff!

Ok, so, here’s a handful of random thoughts.

One, I look fantastic in pink.  Seriously.  This is good, as I present to you the following question.  Is it true that I have to move quite far into ‘girly girl’ territory in order to be identified as female?  Yep.  See, for the first handful of months of the early female stages, I will have to do extra steps appearance-wise, as I am not entirely sure that I will have all the appropriate mannerisms down.  So, my identification will rely on still shot visual cues a bit more than actual movement.  So, that means a lot of feminine appearance what with fun colors and all.  Then, after I have satisfied the requirements for passing in still shot, hopefully I will have some basic mannerisms down.  Then I can tone back, I guess.  We’ll see how that pans out, of course.

Two, growing pains are both amazing and terrible.  Of course, dear reader, I ain’t referring to that expansion of bone at epiphyseal plates.  Nope, no bone where the growing pains are, no sir/ma’am.  Just a collection of tissue that is becoming more dense and more protrusive all at once.  One on each side, though the left one seems to be making slight headway.  This is expected, and they will even out if they know what’s good for them.  On the plus side, they are amazingly sensitive now.  On the down side, they are amazingly sensitive now.  In fact, even the mild compression needed to go out in public and not raise suspicion becomes a bit much sometimes.  However, at the same time, without any protection between nipple and shirt results in way crazy unpleasantness what with the friction and all.  Fear not, though, I got it figured out.  Either way, it’s kind of an awesome pain that means progress.  That’s not to say I go around all day poking at myself.  I only do that for an hour in the morning and an hour in the evening.

Three, not everything is growing.  In fact, some things are quite reduced in size.  Ye olde factories downtown (I’m talkin’ downtown) have had some layoffs recently and they have in turn reduced the size of the plants.  Does that make any sense?  I suppose that was all just clever code for saying my testicles are approximately half size now.  They just don’t have much to do these days.  Which is fine by me, really.  The more compact they are, the easier it is to keep them hidden.  Also, I never wanted kids anyway, and by all weights and measures, it looks like that will not be a concern for long.  If you were actually curious what I mean by this, go find a can of air.  You know, the ones you blast into your keyboard to remove crumbs and such.  Now, just sort of give it a quick squeeze.  That short burst of air?  Apply that to our current conversation here.  Yay, interactive learning!

Does three constitute a handful?  I sure hope so.  Anyway, tonight is Wednesday night, and we all know what that means.  If you aren’t sure, you’ll see soon enough.  You’ll see.

Christmas list!

After the exceptional feedback* of the previous entry, I have decided to present the opposite here!  Surely presenting one thing and then its direct opposite will elicit the exact same response.  Anyway, here are a few tangible objects which would be pleasing to me were they nearer to me with my name written in crayon on the bottom.

1) Egg nog.  This entry is only for those within a two hundred mile radius or so.  Please do not mail me egg nog again.  You know who you are.  Also, if you are indeed buying egg nog for me, please ensure it is actual egg nog and not soy based.  I ain’t got nothin’ against soy milk, but if I’m going to drink egg nog anything, it better cause at least mild chest pressure when I’m done.  In fact, if you look at the label on the back, find the saturated fat line and compare between brands.  Which ever one has the highest number of ‘points’ there is the one you should buy for me.  Seeing as how I don’t really give a fig about sports, this is the only time of year I care about points.  Won’t you help me beat the other team?

2) Nail polish.  See, I’m not even real picky on the color, so this would be a good opportunity to imprint your preferences on my mostly unformed ideas of what looks nice.  For what it’s worth, I do need more sparkly ones.  Come to think of it, I probably need more sparkly things in general.  Also, pink!  Pink and sparkly is probably too much to handle, and I would promptly burst.  But either should be fine, I would think.

3) Caffeine in delicious form.  This would please me much, as I have a problem.  Please feed my crippling addiction!

Well, that’s really the extent of my list I think.  Apparently, only liquids for me.  No solids, gases, or plasma.  Though I suppose if you could find a way to wrap up that unique state of matter, I’m all ears.

More relevant entries to follow sometime soon.  Promises!

* I laughed kind of loud at my ‘suspension rating system’ and it echoed a bit, which I mistook for a studio audience.

Anti-Christmas list!

Well, since it is the mid-to-late afternoon of November, and Christmas is all but down the street and around that corner there, I thought it would be a good idea to help those folks out that want to buy me things.  However, due to my unnecessarily contrary nature, I will present my Christmas list as less inclusive than exclusive.  In short, here are a handful of things I don’t want.

1) Don’t buy me makeup, unless I have specifically asked (which I haven’t).  I have a perfectly capable, not colorblind, person very near me here to assist in picking out the necessary shade(s) to turn me from ogre to she-ogre.  It is not in my best interest to have clashing colors on my already curious face, nor do I want to look like a Picasso circa 1902.  Also, the necessary level of stealth I currently need does not mesh well with particular colors.  So, given my current situation and progress, it’s a bit inappropriate right now.  I have a horrible, sneaking suspicion that somewhere there is a briefcase of eyeshadow wrapped in paper and ribbon with a name tag adorned with a question mark.  I must urge you, yes you who have purchased the very same, to ensure it does not reach its intended recipient.

2) Please no lotions.  I may be horribly colorblind, but I am not scent blind, and I particularly dislike some scents.  Here’s a short list of scents I ain’t too keen on:

- Most of them

So, I must ask, nay plead, no lotions.  Though the winter is coming and the ambient humidity is dropping, fear not!  I shall combat the impeding dryness the way I always have.  Microwaved chicken fat.

3) In the same vein, no soaps or shampoos.  Mostly because I am amazingly picky and also because one of the new joys I have in life is picking out such things based nearly solely on the color of the bottle.  Also, I am not sharing my shampoo bottle color preferences because I got this under control and I don’t think most of these colors have actual names anyway.

4) Let’s avoid underwear from this year on.  As a boy, it’s easy!  Something felt/velour and with a zipper or at least a bell or two.  I have a feeling I might be getting a bit more picky as time goes on.  There are different measurements to take into account, you know.  I also have a suspension rating system (if you aren’t sure what that means, you probably don’t want to ask) that I can assign by sight, and I only accept those with a rating of seven or higher.  Also, please don’t try and buy bras because no that’s why.

5) I think I can add to the previous entry by further stating please no clothes unless I have personally thrust an article into your hands and instructed its purchase.  If I have not expressed desire for something, assume it is for no.  As an aside, please no witty shirts.  I’m witty enough.

That will do for now I should think.  I know it’s tempting to buy ‘a bunch of stuff I’ll need in the future’ but I must urge you instead to buy ‘gift cards.’  If you think I was hard to shop for as a boy, believe me, it is much harder now.  Please don’t guess or assume.  Do buy gift cards.  I don’t need/want many things, but that which I do ought to be picked out by the person who knows me best.

I will, however, consider gifts of expensive liquor to be worthy of hugs and adoration.  See, not everything changes.