#show up to work late every day (a different queer white coworker does this and everyone knows and just excepts/accepts it)

[chantsings]

i have a new coworker who really fits the "i'm a white queer who brings up my adhd, depression, autism, and/or queerness every single shift" trope.

[ocean-in-my-rebel-soul]

“Alaska’s an open-carry state,” I remember as I prime my face and eyes. My hair drips, still damp from the shower. It’s cold down my back. I need a haircut--but maybe not too short, not too queer. 

I set the primer with powder. I remind myself that I need a new cheap fake-fancy makeup sponge. More money spent on being a girl. My wallet and heart weep. Only when the powder covers any hint of my family still in Korea do I brush away the excess. A few minutes with the hairdryer takes care of my hair but it can’t warm the sinking glacier that has become my stomach over the last few days. 

Bright blue shadow. Unambiguously feminine. I forget to wet my brush first and it comes out undersaturated, weak, uncertain. We have that in common. I wet the brush and try again. There’s fall-out on my cheek, under my eye while I paint myself into some semblance of womanhood. There are women--people of all stripes, really--who do this every day, who spend hours perfecting the ways to brush colors on the curves of their face from about six inches away at the bathroom mirror. God, I don’t know how to feel about that fact; I hope some of them at least enjoy it. 

I have forty minutes left before work, a shift I didn’t prepare for, and every minute feels precious, something falling through the fingers of my cupped hands. I already know I’ll be half an hour late. A price to pay; the first hour of my shift’s always slow, anyway, and I’m working with the good bartenders. They can handle it. They’ll have to.

Black, now. A little smokey eye. I’ve always fought with these little Korean eyes. ‘Almond,’ magazines call them. ‘Exotic.’ 

‘Different’ is what they amount to. ‘Difficult.’ Years of Google searches lend themselves to a blending effort that’s mostly passable under dim bar lighting. The same searches have led to the uncomfortable knowledge that my face is literally uneven--only one epicanthal fold, on my left eye, while my right is normal. White. The brow bone on my left side sits a little lower, puffing the skin just a little deeper into the hooded shape.

I spend a few minutes trying not to think about how at least Harvey Dent had a horrific accident that led to his face being fucked up. I just was born. 

I dot on more black eyeshadow. Smokey eyes for my smoke and mirror show. Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, because that’s all there is, right?  Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain. 

Thirty minutes left. I stare at the hazel of my eyes from under their peacock-blue shadow. I’ve never been good at recognizing myself, and I can’t see who the woman in front of me is supposed to be anymore. 

If I draw my eyeliner sharp enough, maybe I could kill that man before he kills me. It’s an open-carry state, and he knows where I work. 

“It’s an open-carry state,” I remind myself. Back to work. 

The eyeliner pen, my dreadful favorite, stares balefully from the haphazard cup of makeup sticks and pens on my bathroom counter. Cat-eye or wings? Man or woman? “You’ve gotta choose,” my new doctor says, the fate of my mental health in his hands. He shrugs, almost apologetic, mostly unconcerned. It’s the first thing he’s said to me once the door closed, even before his credentials or experience. “So, he or she?” 

I curl my arms around myself in that office chair. It digs, uncomfortable, against my broken back and battered soul. “She,” I grudgingly mutter, rough like glass in my throat. He types his notes so easily--like he didn’t make me shatter my own psyche for the sake of his comfortable disinterest.

I make a choice. Wings. Wings wide enough to let me fly away from this place. The blackness is stark against the almost neon-blue of my shadow. It curls in lines that don’t want to stay straight.

If I draw my eyeliner sharp enough, maybe it could kill two men.

I sharpen it further with concealer and foundation and set it all with more powder that only makes me sneeze. My eyeliner threatens to smudge. I turn the hairdryer on my face to keep from wasting all this hard work. Twelve minutes left. If I were a better woman, or better at being a woman, I’d have figured out how to do this faster. I’d be better. 

Eleven, now, and I draw on my contour. I remember the wonderful, beautiful drag queen who taught me the magic of contours, who walked me through brush shapes and diffusion and blending. Lines of bronze carve cheekbones from happy fat of twenty-eight birthday dinners, hundreds of date nights, thousands of meals shared with loved ones. They drip down my neck to lengthen, to hide and shadow my broad jaw and the way it lay clenched tight. My teeth hurt and my jaw aches. I relax. I breathe. My ribs hurt where they get dug into by a binder that doesn’t quite fit right. I remember vividly the feeling of cracked ribs and pray to any god that’s listening that I don’t have to cough.

Ten minutes. 

A highlight. Here, there, everywhere. Inner corners of my eyes, hiding the epicanthal fold of my heritage, brightening and widening and White-ening them. Under the uneven ridge of brows that never quite grew right after being plucked to within an inch of their life in the 2000s when I first had the inkling of not being a girl and so desperately wishing, needing to be one, even then, even at nine years old. 

I highlight those carven cheekbones because I have enough paint on to live at the goddamn Louvre. I dot some shimmer on the tip of my nose. The tip of my fucking nose. If anyone’s looking at my nose, my eyeshadow isn’t doing its job. I highlight anyway. 

Two minutes lost contemplating the fuckery. Eight minutes left. 

Panic. Spray setting spray. Get some in my mouth. It’s disgusting, for all its aloe and cucumber smell. I hit my face with the hairdryer again. I reapply the fucking shimmer to my goddamn nose and wonder at which point, exactly, I turn into Rudolph the Highlighted Reindeer. It’s only this thought that stills my hand from dusting my nose a third time. 

Line the lips. Lips that always got attention. “Damn, girl,” an old coworker exclaims, seven years ago when I’m the ripe old age of 20. I need the job or else I’m homeless. He leans in and smiles like he’s just found them, just discovered them. He spends longer looking at my lips than he does at the training materials he’s supposed to teach me and doesn’t learn my name for the whole first day we work together. “Damn.”  I spend the winter of 2011-2012 homeless anyway and wish to slap him in all the inventive ways I keep to myself each time he looks at me in the seven months we work together.

Red, like blood. Red, like war. 

The lipstick applies smoother than anything else I’ve put on tonight and I hate it just a little bit. 

Red, like danger. 

Red, like STOP. 

“Damn, girl.” 

I highlight the ridge of my Cupid’s bow and wish that Cupid found himself with more of a compound action type thing. Shoot me in the face with something a little more powerful, fucker. 

I highlight the ridge of my Cupid’s bow over lips that are too plush, too full, too wide to wear anything but a coy smile, even when I’m screaming. 

Two minutes left. I spray more setting spray on my face and hope for the best. I jerk my shoulder weird getting into a regular bra--one that ‘lifts and separates’ but I’ve been binding for fifteen years now, so it’s not like there’s much tissue to ‘lift and separate’ and honestly, I’ve felt separated from myself for years. 

It has some hella good padding, though. It’s my “girl” bra. The “good” bra. I’m a good girl in it. 

“It’s an open-carry state.” 

I stare at my reflection and the literal stranger staring back at me. I can’t recognize myself visually, anyway. At least the lady in front of me has killer eyeliner. 

If only it could kill anyone other than me. 

I pull my shirt on as I shuffle to the living room. “Wow, you look amazing,” my roommate’s girlfriend says. “That eyeshadow, fucking wow.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Peacock blue. Peacock’s my favorite animal,” I say, shoving my too-big man feet into coordinating blue flats. “Useless and vain, just like me.” 

The peacock is the male of his species, and he’s beautiful and painted so brilliantly, and he, too, gets misgendered. 

She laughs. I try not to cry. 

[goldenblanc-blog]

( 10 UNDERUSED CHARACTER QUESTIONS. )

( 10 UNDERUSED CHARACTER QUESTIONS. )

INTRODUCTION

NAME: Talia Blanc AGE:  32 YOUR FAVORITE PICTURE OF YOUR MUSE: (honestly i love drawing her so legit every pic)

QUESTIONS

01.  WHAT WOULD BE THEIR TWITTER NAME? WHAT SORTS OF TWEETS WOULD THEY TWEET?

Twitter Name: Talia ✔

Simple and sweet. Likes to switch it around every now and then but usually stays in a variety of her name ( Blanc, Lia, etc.)

She likes to post pictures of her latest inspirations and also tons of selfies with her models and coworkers. She’s a big fan of being active online, though she usually wont respond to any @’s unless she knows them personally or are interested in them.

02.  WHAT’S THEIR FAVORITE GENRE OF MOVIES? OF MUSIC?

Talia is surprisingly a big fan of cooking shows and competitions. She cant cook for the life of her, but she loves the tension and the presentation of the food. Afterwards, she usually ends up booking reservations for some ridiculously expensive restaurant in hopes of sating her hunger. She tried cooking for herself once, but gave up halfway through after getting confused at some of the terminology and ended up trashing the entire kitchen in a rage.

Talia is always down for something with a good beat, something that can get her moving and raring to go. She likes to have a good steady beat while she works, usually on hours of repeat so her concentration doesn’t break when the song shifts.

03.  WHAT’S ON THEIR TOP QUEUE ON NETFLIX?

Chef’s Table, Queer Eye, Amazing Interiors, The World’s Most Extraordinary Homes

04.  WHAT’S THEIR FAVORITE SCENT? DO THEY SMELL LIKE THAT?

She likes the cool, cutting scent of mint, so naturally she always has mints on her person. It helps her focus and it doesn’t hurt when she spies a few beauties around the corner and pops in a mint, just in case.

Talia tries a variety of perfumes, but her favorite one, the one she wears when she’s in a really good mood, is a comforting mix of apple and vanilla. When her staff catches hints of it, they know that today is the best day to offer any questionable projects in mind.

05.  APPLE OR ANDROID? 

A strong Apple user, the sleek design and that gold and white flair? How could she resist?

06.  FAVORITE SEASON? LEAST FAVORITE SEASON?

Spring and Fall, the perfect time to wear just enough clothes to fight the chill, but also showcase beautiful colors. She enjoys the soft breeze and the sun gently shining behind sparse clouds as she  dons a light scarf that trails behind her in the wind.

Summer and Winter, the two extremities that differ per location. While a light summer may allow for a light and flirty outfit and swim wear, a harsh summer makes it easier for customers to prioritize comfort of clothes (or lack thereof) than fashionable ones. The same sense for winters, a softer winter allows for a fashionable pile up of layers and bags, a stormy and barren winter will call for a mismatch of layers for warmth, never minding the mismatch. The fashion when walking around a extreme summer or winter gives Talia stress.

07. ARE THEY A BOTTOM OR TOP OR VERSATILE?

She prefers to Top, but she isn’t too picky ;)

08.  DESCRIBE THEIR MORNING ROUTINE. DO THEY WAKE UP EARLY OR SLEEP IN? DO THEY PRESS THE SNOOZE BUTTON A BUNCH OF TIMES OR DO THEY IMMEDIATELY GET UP?

Talia prefers late nights, early mornings. She’s not too big a fan of sleep and prefers to have her body occupied with something. When she dreams, she remembers her past, and she’s rather keep that behind her. The future is now, and she won’t slow down to think of trivialities. Mara insists on dragging her from her work space to bed during the early hours of morning with threats every now and then, but she gives in occasionally because she does like to spoil her workers so.

09.  IF THEY WERE TO BE COMPARED TO A CANON CHARACTER, WHO WOULD THAT BE? (SPIRIT ANIMAL)

Possibly Bell-mere. Confident, flirty, does what she wants without being weighed down by others opinions, and loves her makeshift family.

10. FINISH THIS SENTENCE, MUSE:  WHAT WOULD ___ DO?

 “What would Mara do?” - usually used in a case where she is trying to comfort someone, and doing a very, very bad job of it.

tag FIVE PEOPLE so they can get to know their muse too!

@xviridiis​

@yakiire

@xphotogeniic

@xflaare

@jakcby

TAGGED BY @jcllyfisn​

[plainsimplevic]

Well - That’s One Way To Come Out At Work

That was surprising. At work, as I've been vehemently talking about on twitter, there's been a lot of homophobic slurs being thrown around. Just as importantly, it was communicated to me that I basically needed to step up or I'd be fired. That I was “making excuses” for not doubling my output and occasionally coming in later (sometimes too late) in the day.  This is when I've done nothing but excel at this job. In fact I've been given additional responsibility and praised by those who are hardest to please! I’ve pushed through illness after illness the past 6 months. Fought through infections so painful I could feel them through the haze caused by an entire bottle of whiskey. I’ve been here in the middle of the night vibrating because my cold is that bad. I’ve gotten SURGERY because I realized a condition was affecting my work - prioritizing that over other procedures I need done because I believe in fulfilling my commitments. Period. Whatever it takes. Be they professional, personal, or in support of my loved ones. And now my dedication, competency, and integrity are being questioned and I’m being threatened on top of all the bigotry? Those are NOT things you question about me. I’m not perfect and I fuck up but those base values are what makes me, me. Hell, my motto is Honour, Courage, Integrity!

It had gotten to the point that I've been very close to exploding, quitting, calling them the bigots they were, and storming out. I nearly did so this week after one boss was subtly (though I believe ignorantly) racist and the other was using gay slurs within half an hour.

After calming myself down, my plan was to consult with some friends this week, calm down further, get some sleep, and be professional. To put in my 2 weeks, tell them why, and use the last pitiful paycheck to put myself in a position to make money by other means.

Now, as I continued to calm down, I realized that immediately pulling the trigger on quitting was an immature way to handle the situation. As much as I wanted to, the enlightened thing to do would be to open a dialogue with my bosses and trying to resolve the situation rather than treat them as hostile. Despite the evidence, there may be more going on that I’m unaware of and they may be receptive to what I have to say. What can I say? I’m a Trekkie who grew up in the TNG era. Exhaust all opportunities for discussion before taking any action that could be taken as hostile. It may sound silly, but that show was very formative for me and the principles I learned from it have helped me well in life. #IAmStarfleet

But, after FINALLY getting some sleep last night and with one of the bosses gone on a business trip, something felt right about doing this today. I’d had some sleep so I knew my emotional control would be there and I wasn’t going to act unprofessionally. The boss had just come back from a “liquid lunch” so he was relaxed but not drunk. Having come out the day before to my straight-ally coworker had heartened me. And I was not so overloaded that I couldn’t take some time and write the 3-4 pages of talking points I needed to write before hand to keep me on track if I got flustered. So, I positioned myself so that my boss couldn’t avoid me (not that he was trying - just so he knew I needed to talk to him) and asked for a half hour one on one before he left. He agreed. It was no big issue.

Now, I’ve dealt with similar situations before. When I worked political campaigns, I was not only in a much more demanding and labor intensive positions (20+ hour days for months with no ability to take weekends off) but that boss was a total, self absorbed, jackass that continued tearing me down despite all I was doing. Nothing was good enough. So I called him and demanded a meeting. He asked when I could come in. I demanded he come to me (I was an hour and a half away). I sat him down and did then what I did today. I explained the situation and told him why there was an issue. At the next team meeting he promised to do better and afterwards gave me a big hug and thanked me. He didn’t change and was eventually replaced, but the point is that I knew that this is something I could do. But that doesn’t make it less scary. Especially since this involved something so personal that I’ve had so many issues dealing with over my life. Especially since I’ve only in the past few weeks felt comfortable enough with my sexuality to begin to talk about it with straights who are my long term friends. It surprised the heck out of me when I came out to my co-worker yesterday. #Scary.

I also had several people cautioning me not to do this. My mother was the most adamant. But also a friend who was concerned that this place was so hostile that I might just face further discrimination. For insight into my mindset, and really, just who I am, I want to quote an excerpt from my response to that.

“The bigotry, lack of respect, and lack of compensation is whats bugging me. If this convo fixes that...  Long hours I'm meh about and I enjoy the work. And that’s not judging others. That’s just who I am. I'm the guy who has the guts to face things head on. Stare the darkness in the face and dare it to extinguish my light. If I lose that, I lose everything. I cant have that with every other aspect of my life and not this now that I've accepted it.”

And for those who are going to criticize me and say that my lack of self acceptance of my sexual identity disproves that statement let me point a couple things out. 1) Bandwidth. Without going into too much detail, my life, especially the past 10 years, has been ROUGH. It’s hard to do things like process your sexuality issues when you’re doing things like working 16 hour days while a tooth rots in your head because you can’t afford to get the root canal you need because all you’re money’s going into making the choice between food and bills. Or when everyone around you, with the exception of your mother, does not seem to be, but is actually dying or abandoning you. 2) Lack of community. I’m just a man and I have my limits - sometimes I need help. By reaching out for that help, I’m proving my statements about myself true. I haven’t had anyone I could turn to and ask, “what was it like for you?”. No-one to relate to. No-one to tell me that there’s nothing wrong with me. I didn’t even have support outside the queer community dealing with every other aspect life - much less in it to deal with this. Every time I reached out the past 5 or 6 years to try to get that support, I was shut down in some way. I’ve had community members shrug and be dismissive, not understanding the traumas involved with growing up Catholic and in a homophobic setting. I’ve had people point to some reading material, pat me on the head, and send me on my merry - not truly understanding the damage 25+ years of internalized homophobia can cause. I’ve had one gal talk about bi-erasure in one breath, insist I’m straight in the other, declare how lesbians are superior to all others, and then try to get me to apologize for being a cishet man. Which, growing up primarily raised by women, having strong memories of sitting around the table as they talk about how horrible men are, being told “but you’re different” and “one of the good ones” and left feeling othered and wondering how much I should hate myself for my gender did NOT go over well. But that’s an entire blog post in it of itself and I digress.

So the time for the meeting came and I told my boss everything. I told him that he needed to quit the gay slurs. That I was bi. That I had met and was falling for the most amazing guy which had inspired me to make another attempt at confronting these issues. That the past couple months have been awesome and positive but extremely intense. That there’s been many times where I’ve held it together during the day and then just stared into my monitor for hours unable to do anything but have tears in my eyes once everyone left. That I’ve been on my laptop so much because I’m getting (and giving) support. That I’m afraid that some of my friends may end themselves and not be there tomorrow. Of all the illness I’ve been pushing through. And how, through it all, I still got the job DONE.

And the response was shocking. He was completely taken aback. He asked, “what slurs?” I gave him an example and, being total white straight male, he hadn’t even realized what he was doing. He asked if I was gay. I told him bi and he laughed and exclaimed how insensitive he’s been and immediately apologized. He lit up and exclaimed how awesome it was when I said I was falling for (again) the most amazing man (hard). He said how he has no issues with queer folk and told me of his gay friend with a similar background to me. He told me how, when he grew up, they used those terms all the time to effectively mean asshole but had no clue what they meant and that they had just become reflex - but that that was no excuse. That he had no problem not outing me to anyone else, though I’m close to being completely out. I was valued and appreciated.

And then, no joke, he asked me what I needed on my projects and the entire thing became, among other things, a pitch session and him putting many of his resources at my disposal.

Also, it turns out that the “firing” thing was because the other boss was freaking out about how a couple of business partners who were funding my salary simply didn’t like having to pay me and, for that reason alone which nothing to do with me, were looking for any excuse to “cut costs.” From my own deductions, I now realize that it’s mostly that I haven’t been putting up enough of a “show” of working on the rare occasion they’ve been around which is probably making it harder for that boss to defend me. Also, I’m 90% sure this is that guy’s first time managing someone and I know for a fact that this is his first time working in this industry and dealing with certain types of personalities - like said business partners. These are things that I have decades of experience with in one form or another so, now that I know that I know what his issues largely are, I plan on having a similar talk with him and offering my advice and support. I’ve been in that position before and watched it blow up in my face. Honestly, he’s fucking lucky it’s me and not someone else - they would have stormed out. I know. I’ve been the one stormed out on.

His main fault was not properly communicating to me how much of an issue these asshole business partners have been. I’ve been in his position many a time and now exactly how to compensate for that kind of bullshit. And because of his lack of communication, I haven’t been able to make his job easier by doing so.

I think there might be a couple of translation-to-this-industry issues as well so I’ll talk to him about that too. And, apparently, the boss I talked to has had to pull that boss aside a few times recently. Somethings going on with his personal life I feel.

So, yeah. That was probably the best coming-out-at-work experience I could have had. We’ll see if the boss I spoke to lives up to his promises but, as of now, things are looking up. I’m so glad that I haven’t been too traumatized in life that I can still hope. Maybe I’m just too stubborn an asshole to let it go. But it’s that hope that led me to try the diplomatic path. That allowed me to adhere to my values and belief that dialogue and understanding can solve nearly all situations so long as both sides listen.

And yes, those are Starfleet values. And if that’s too corny for you I have 2 things to say. 1) Read the above book-of-a-blog again and tell me how I’m wrong when EVERYONE else (except Mom) was telling me that the only solution was to quit in a righteous rage. 2) Fuck off you ignorant, pessimistic, little shit. #IAmStarfleet #FirstDutyToTheTruth #TrekTillIDie

I may still leave here soon for various other reasons, but now, rather than making enemies here I’ll leave with (assuming words meet deeds - which evidence so far here as indicated these are the kind of people where that’ll be the case) A) the use of these facilities for my own projects, B) plenty of time to prepare, and C) a financial cushion to aid in the transition.

Thanks to Danni, Alex, and Kaeden who’s support and affections have been crucial in helping me get to the point where I’m secure enough in my identity that I can tackle issues like this. Thank you for being my community.

[rexylafemme]

infinite deaths lead to infinite transformations

i recognize lately that there's this lingering sense of failure & loss & sadness living in my body, existing just out of frame in my thoughts (meaning, i guess, i don't give real space, attentive space to), having specifically to do with [said in bratty, tongue-in-cheek, big big air quotes] "my identity," "my body." 

the other night i was on the phone with a dear kindred friend of many years, was responding to something she said and i said, "if i were you, that would make me feel really bad. i mean, if i were a human being, that would..." i stopped and then we both started cracking up. freudian slip. in the moment, i'm not quite sure what i meant, but it felt like i really meant it, really natural to say. not being a human being is a sense i have about myself, i think because humanness is defined by things that are fundamentally exclusive of my experience, how i see myself, how i think, how i move through the world, what my body is. also, trans people just ARE mythical creatures.

anyway, whatever. i don't "exist" technically, but i do exist actually. and also, we have always existed, we-- trans people [which i use as a really broad, inclusive term to include all of the figures who never are/were able to claim that term, all of the figures for whom it does/did not exist, all of the figures it is/was robbed from, all of the figures who it is/was rewritten out of] have always existed. we are not new.

anyway, whatever. this quieted, stifled, devastated feeling of loss/grief/sadness/failure. though i wrote an article about it, i've never actually grieved testosterone. grieved taking it, grieved what i would not have not taking it, the death of the possibility. that my decision to stop was motivated by a number of things we aren't really able to talk about with pride, gusto, ease. [who is we in this sentence, all my non-human, trans self-states (?)  strung together through this thread of my life, the life i didn't ask for but i have anyway and try to appreciate tho it seems widely the Reality i live in, am called Human or not-Human in, doesn't appreciate me often-- tho i have a lot of really amazing loving people in my life far and wide, and, yes, have fought to carve out space to be seen in, acknowledged in, appreciated in [not just for trans-ness] however fully or un-fully, however full of truths or lies.]   i'm fucking crazy-- i identify that way, probably ahead of any other thing i am other than being poor and white, i am crazy before i am trans, i am crazy before i am anything that defines what my body is bc who cares and who knows but me [tho i recognize the political importance of identifying my body as something, i guess, even when it is nothing, feels like it or i am outside of it mostly or effectively it is treated like nothing, by me, others, lovers, the state, etc], i am crazy before i am queer-- if even i am that, having always had an ambivalent relationship with that term given its evolution as this annoying and unfortunate category that recycles exclusion and problems of white supremacy, capitalism, ableism, gatekeeping, rules for how to be, who to fuck/love/be close to and how, how to look, what to wear, what to like, builds institutions whose foundations are based in all of the above, etc. how quickly we forget how poor crazy black, brown, and white people radicalized the word queer, how it became Queer, trademarked by judith butler et al, liberal arts colleges, universities, research journals and then further used to silence, reject, consume, criticize, murder-by-complicity poor crazy black, brown, and white trans and queer people. rageful yawn! [so boring, so anger-producing, so over it]. and all of this so then jill soloway can make "the best tv series of the century"  [so says a white cis old dude w/ money named sparrow to my trans coworker who gets fed up with him after he says something like 'oh your name is different than it was a few months ago, that's so interesting. no one changes their names anymore unless they're transsexuals" and then they were like "yeah that would be me." "OHHHH TRANSPARENT IS THE BEST TV SHOW OF THE CENTURY," sparrow says in response. sparrow, who said to me, as many before him have and many after will: "YOUR name is rex? YOU? it's so WEIRD, YOUUU have that name???! wow, who would've thought!" cuz being a grown-ass white man self-named after a fucking bird isn't weird at all. transparent, yay, the tv show about US, that's not really about US. and i watch it so i guess i'm probably a hypocritical asshole, but i am starving for some representation. anyway, whatever. i'm probably crazy and poor before other things because crazy and poor provides the wash over which everything else i live is experienced. crazy, poor, grieving this synthetic steroid i experienced as poison in my body and brain. this thing i can't have that i want. this toxic thing. toxic because it erodes away my vag, toxic because it could destroy my liver, toxic because continued use over time could pose all these extreme health problems, but who knows really! cuz, why would we study that?! and when we do study it, why would we focus on the multiplicity of bodies and spectrum of people who approach HRT?! toxic because i am a crazy poor person with a lot of health problems to begin with that i don’t talk about and i probably would develop all the like, weird anomalous issues that "most people just won't ever have to worry about"! [most people is... ? ]

toxic because i lost all track of how i related to myself, how i felt, or what i even wanted while i was on it. i know what i want and what i like [about what it gave me]: more hair everywhere [yay!], androgynizing body shape [awesome!], growth in my underwear [i don't really know what to call what in-betweenness is going on there, cockette i say to myself but that feels maybe too campy for general use and not sexy however fitting and hilarious. anyway, it's cool and fun!], androgynizing voice [sometimes sultry, sometimes pubescent, sometimes girly, fran fine as a man laugh, excellent]. and the goal was always androgynizing, was always becoming something else, not one thing. tiresias, venus as a boy, dionysus, whatever.

but so i am sad because i can't move forward with those things that i like. the embodiment. and embodiment for me, as a crazy poor person, is constantly difficult. am i ever even in my body, do i have one, what is it good for, why. i moved further away from a sense of even desiring "masculinity" when i started t. that was a gift, to realize my desire wasn’t about acquisition of “maleness.” i just wanted all the things i described above: the physical changes that for whatever reason signify "maleness" or "trans-maleness" and therefore told people that's what i wanted because i wanted those physical attributes. i don't wanna be a man or a trans man. man, not something that i ever felt like. boy, dude, male, maybe, some hybrid masc/femme thing, cross-human.  i definitely didn't want the head-hair loss/thinning, which happened and put me into a neurotic, severely gender-NONCONFIRMING frenzy. i can't lose my hair i can't lose my hair. call it femme vanity, i dunno or really care, a bitch isn't gonna be bald, that's it, not ok not possible not happening so that also informed my decision to stop t, tho i didn't really admit it. i won't say i didn't/don't want the "he" pronoun, sometimes. i want them all. i'm greedy and excessive and i don’t like being limited. i want to be what i am: a mix, a shapeshifter. one angle i look like one thing, one angle another. the reason people stare at me all the time: bewildered, upset, confused, looking for clear markers. staring at my crotch or into my eyes, my face, working out their assessments. judging what i'm wearing against my facial hair against my makeup against my voice against an absence of breasts against my name against my...

anyway, whatever. i am sad because i can kinda have all of those things: more hair, more androgynized body. if i try hard enough. if i have enough time and money. because i could see a nutritionist and an herbalist specializing in trans health [they exist if you can pay to see them!]. or alternately, i could DIY it, buy all the herbs in the androgynizing herb regimen i came up with through research, and i could take them every day for... forever if i wanted, or for however long i wanted to, based solely on my desire to do it. not if i wanted, if i could. but i don't have the money. and i can't. and i could do all the exercises that would androgynize my shape. if i had the time and the energy. if i could get my shit together enough. if i weren't cycling in and out of housing insecurity since i returned to nyc and even before and through my whole life. if i weren't, some days, just able to do the bare minimum for myself, if i weren't racked with body pains somedays from a combination of: the things i do to my body that are bad for it [binding], not being able to sleep, work, running around, having a sick, sensitive body, the ways i carry stress in my body and where. if i didn't have problems prioritizing myself. if i weren't afraid of the structure of my exercise and nutrition regimen evolving into eating disorder and unhealthy obsession like they have before. if i weren't crazy.

it becomes about all the things i am always failing at that i can't do much about other than be patient and accept the material/systemic/emotional limitations that frame my life. back to poor, back to crazy: why i can't move forward at the speed that i would like to with my "transition." crazy means i can't be on t without being crazier and more sleepless and more in trauma self-states. crazy means i sometimes can't live up to my own structures and routines for my own health: body, mind, spirit. poor means i can't go to the trans nutritionist, the trans herbalist, buy the herbs and have them all the time. and i'm trying so hard to get that money, to do that. or, i'm trying so hard to be okay with not having what i want, what i need. remembering it's not my fault. there's nothing i can do about it. but that's not really a consolation so much as it is another reminder of my powerlessness to shift certain realities that affect not only me, but so many other people i care about, or people i do not know, everyone who should have everything that they want and need, regardless of who they are and what they can afford materially/socially/politically.

and i am grieving for all the knowledge we have lost and is not widely accessible. because tho i may not have the evidence or may not have done all the research, i fucking know people have been "transitioning" naturally and through magic for as long as people have existed and throughout all cultural contexts, whether trans-ness has been exalted (and it has, throughout time) or demonized/criminalized/driven underground. our mythological selves.