#the big thirty five woot woot

[allylikethecat]

Chapters: 1/4 Fandom: The 1975 (Band) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: George Daniel/Matthew Healy Characters: Matthew Healy, George Daniel, Adam Hann, Ross Macdonald, Denise Welch Additional Tags: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Birthday Series: Part 5 of The Infection 'Verse Summary:

He never thought that was a milestone he would reach, he never thought that he would live past twenty seven. He was a tortured artist, a heroin addict, it had all but been accepted, it had all but been decided that he would be joining the twenty seven club. He would be laid to rest well before his twenty eighth birthday. He wondered how many more birthdays he would have, and he wondered if they were all going to hurt this much.

.

AKA The Birthday Fic™️

[ittybittypbandj]

The Internship - Chapter 2

A multi-chapter Bittyparse fic with fluff and angst! Woot! 5 chapters, weekly updates. Also on ao3. <3

Summary:

Eric Bittle arrived in New York two weeks ago, newly single and ready for a fresh start. This internship was just what he needed to jumpstart his life.

Kent Parson loved his life in New York. He was at the peak of his NHL career. He had friends, the world’s greatest cat, and everything he thought he needed.

He never expected a small Southern blonde to burst into his life and turn everything on its head.

“Lordy, Bun, he winked. Winked! What on earth was I thinking, stayin’ late like I could just make myself at home?”

Señor Bun listened patiently, all floppy ears and non-judgmental beaded eyes. Bitty turned away from the desk, where he’d just finished organizing video clips on his laptop for work the next day, and pulled back the covers to climb into bed. He settled Señor Bun into the crook of his arm and tugged the quilt up around his chin.

“You’re the best listener, Bun.” Bitty nuzzled the worn rabbit and closed his eyes. He hadn’t talked to Señor Bun when he lived with Jack – it seemed too juvenile for his serious-NHL-star boyfriend’s bedroom – but he always felt better after spilling his feelings to his rabbit, and today’s events definitely needed Señor Bun’s comforting touch.

The thing was, Bitty had liked Kent’s wink. Really, really liked it. He’d enjoyed the whole day, in fact. Kent was surprisingly warm and welcoming. He’d been a great host, offering them drinks, chatting with the crew, picking up lunch from the Cantonese restaurant on 10th Ave.

He was also easy to look at, and Bitty wasn’t blind – built like a daydream with his blonde waves and solid muscles. He was only a few inches taller than Bitty, but Bitty would bet he had thirty pounds on him, all pecs and abs and quads, mercy.

But he shouldn’t be thinking about all that. It was too soon after his and Jack’s breakup to be thinking about someone else, and Kent Parson of all people. What on god’s green earth was he doing?

He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling in the dark. Sometime last month, he’d stopped counting the number of days since the breakup. One day it just didn’t make sense anymore. It was like he’d looked down at himself and found a millstone in his hands he never realized he’d been carrying, and once he realized its weight, he could finally drop it.

He still had sad days, and little things sometimes knocked him off-balance like a gust of wind. Jack had been his first boyfriend, first real love. Bitty missed a lot of things about their old life. He’d hear a person speaking Quebecois on the subway, or see ducks in a neighborhood park, or smell maple syrup as he walked past a café, and memories would wash over him.

Bitty hugged Señor Bun tighter and sighed, feeling guilty for the little part of him that desired Kent Parson and his muscles. It was disloyal. Kent was the Bad Guy. Wasn’t he?

“We’ll get through this, Bun, just you wait and see. We’ll be courteous and professional. It’s a business relationship, that’s all.”

As reassurances went, it felt a little hollow, but Señor Bun didn’t comment and Bitty let the conversation drop. He closed his eyes, burrowed a little lower under the covers, and focused on his breath until he drifted off to sleep.

_/_/_/ \_\_\_

Kent: [image07194421.jpg]

Jack: Is Kit wearing a Rangers jersey?

Kent: dude

Kent: read better

Kent: it says Purrson 90 on the back

Jack: Hah, you got her a personalized cat jersey. You’re ridiculous.

Kent: you’re just jelly cuz she could own ur ass at hockey

Kent: her FO% is .52

Jack: I repeat, you’re ridiculous. How’s your day?

Kent: her slapshot tops 90mph

Jack: Did you run today?

Kent: yeah but it was muggy as balls

Kent: u?

Jack: 6 miles, 39:50, light hills

Kent: slacker

Jack: What was your time?

Kent: a gentleman wouldn’t ask

Jack: C’mon, Kenny…

Jack: Please?

Kent: haha

Kent: oh man I forgot I ordered delivery. gotta go, food’s here [sushi emoji] [grinning cat emoji]

Jack: OK weirdo.

Kent dug the heels of his hands into his eyes. Ugh, why did all of his texting turn into piles of steaming shit?

He was texting Jack to build their friendship. Back when Kent was seeing his therapist regularly, they’d talked about what Kent would do if Jack started communicating with him again. They’d written down a list of strategies that Kent could use to help rebuild their friendship as adults, without the tangle of hormones, stress, and unresolved mental health issues that led to their first fiery downfall.

This – texting Jack pictures of Kit – was part of Kent’s Being-Friends-With-Zimms List. So far Jack had initiated most of their text conversations, sending Kent his workout stats and asking him for Netflix recommendations. Kent figured it was his turn, and Kit looked hella cute in her Purrson jersey. He wasn’t about to offer Jack his morning run time; he was always faster than Zimms and it wasn’t polite to brag.

He wanted to eventually get around to asking about Eric, since he was pretty sure adults asked each other if it was OK to be friends with their exes. But, like, one step at a time.

And then Jack had called him Kenny in his text. It was the first time since that party at Samwell years ago. Kent called Jack ‘Zimms’ all the time, and Jack called him ‘Parse’. Those were hockey nicknames, Parse-and-Zimms, Zimms-and-Parse.

Kent’s stomach felt twisted in knots. ‘Kenny’ wasn’t a hockey nickname. It was intimate, and a decade ago it would have been followed by desperate, whispered Quebecois. Kent had convinced himself ages ago that Jack didn’t think of him as ‘Kenny’ anymore.

So, Kent totally freaked and aborted the conversation with made-up sushi. Fuck his life.

He sighed and flipped his phone over. This friendship plan was therapist-approved, damn it. He wouldn’t waste his best chance at being friends with Jack on one stupid texting freakout.

Kent: sorry Zimms, the delivery guy was downstairs

Jack: It’s no problem.

Kent: so, tell me about ur run. get passed by any little old ladies?

_/_/_/ \_\_\_

Bitty and Kent emailed frequently in the two weeks leading up to launch. There were a surprising number of details to iron out. They exchanged photos. Bitty sent a list of proposed posts for Kit’s Instagram and Twitter. Kent replied with changes (Kit always wrote in first person, #NYClife was better curated than #NYC, etc.). Bitty appreciated Kent’s thoughtfulness.

He didn’t appreciate sorting through a deluge of emails from Kent, though, and he wished they could do some things over text. Kent had a habit of sending an email half-written, then replying four or five times with additions and random thoughts. Was it weird to give a professional contact his personal number? It wasn’t, right? He had Meesha’s number. But with all the weird history between him and Kent, what if it was a bad idea?

The night before launch, after sifting through another forty emails from Kent, Bitty finally bit the bullet and emailed Kent his cell number.

Tomorrow’s the big day!!!, he wrote. The advertising placements go live at 3am, social media at 9am. We’ll monitor the comments and retweets from the office. You and Kit are going to do great.

Here’s my cell if you need anything. Shoot me a text if you want help replying to Kit’s comments, or if you need me to use the admin functions to block a troll (not that Kit will have any trolls, she’s the sweetest li’l thing and the internet loves her).

Talk to you tomorrow!

Eric

An hour later, Bitty’s phone dinged with an incoming message.

[Unknown Sender]: hey this is Kent

[Unknown Sender]: texting so you have my number for tomorrow

Bitty: Hi Kent! How y’all doing tonight?

Kent: good, watching minority report and drinking wine. Kit’s practicing her autograph

Bitty: She’s such a sweetie [grinning emoji]

Kent: u?

Bitty: I’m waiting for a batch of mini-pies to finish baking, then I’m off to bed. You & Kit should get some sleep too, big day tomorrow

Kent: pie??? [pie emoji] [heart-eyes cat emoji]

Bitty: I’m a bit of a baker. It helps when I’m nervous [blushing emoji]

Bitty: Someday I’ll bring you some, how’s that sound? My blueberry cream cheese pie was first runner-up at the Georgia state fair

Kent: you are my hero

Bitty: Lol talk to you tomorrow Kent

Kent: night Eric

_/_/_/ \_\_\_

“Can I get something started for you, sir?”

Kent stepped forward and smiled at the barista. He ordered a latte and a morning bun. She rang him up and efficiently prepared his order, handing him a to-go mug and a pastry the size of Kit’s head. He squeezed into a booth with rustic benches and a bud vase of daisies, and waited for Eric.

This was Kent and Eric’s first Post-Launch Monthly Touchbase, or whatever businessy name Eric had called it in his email.

The day was gorgeous – cool and dry, which was unheard of in New York in August – and Kent didn’t want to waste it by meeting in an office. He’d asked if they could meet somewhere else, and Eric had recommended this sunny café near Washington Square Park. It was eclectic and cute, and Kent was going to chirp Eric to hell and back over the hipster croissant/bagel hybrid – cragels? bagants? – the café was supposedly famous for.

After ten minutes, Kent spotted Eric through the window approaching the café, tugging earbuds out of his ears and looping them around his thin fingers. He wore a pale yellow sweater over a light blue button-down and navy khakis that hugged his thighs, and Kent silently, sternly reminded his dick that this was a business meeting.

Eric ordered and made his way to the table. He set down a small pastry between them and looked at Kent with his warm, inviting brown eyes.

“Have you tried the cragels? They’re just lovely. I got us one to share, they always sell out.”

Kent groaned.

The business part of the meeting was efficient and smooth, like all of his and Eric’s interactions so far. In the two weeks since launch, they’d texted regularly and kept up with the marketing plan, so really all they needed to do was confirm the advertising placements for September.

Kent enjoyed working with Eric. He was capable and self-assured. Although Kent was starting to discover he was something of procrastinator, if the number of emails Eric sent after midnight was any indication.

Bitty tapped lightly on his phone screen. “Let’s see now, you’re in training camp starting September third…any dates we need to work around before then?”

Kent tore off a strip of morning bun. “Well, we’re already back to training every day, with morning workouts and ice time most afternoons. I don’t think there’s any conflicts though,” he took a large bite and paused as he chewed, “I’ll text you if something comes up.”

Bitty looked up and his lips quirked into a smile. “Lord, I forgot y’all’d be in daily practices already. I can’t believe how quickly I’ve forgotten the hockey schedule. This meeting wasn’t at a bad time, was it?”

Was Eric making a reference to Jack’s schedule or his own college days? Kent wasn’t sure, so he politely ignored it.

“Nah, you’re golden. I started early and did upper body work before coming here.”

“Bulking up for the season?”

“You hadn’t noticed?” Kent asked, fake-sweetly. He flexed comically and Eric laughed.

“Well you keep workin’ on that morning bun, hon. I’m sure that helps.”

Kent gawped. Eric was chirping him. He grinned. It was on.

They joked and talked as customers filed in and out around them. Kent’s cheeks hurt from smiling. Eric’s short hair had gone a little fluffy where he kept unconsciously running his fingers through it. Kent had an irrational desire to grab Eric’s wrist and gently kiss each of his fingertips. He squashed the impulse and rearranged their empty plates in the center of the table.

Somehow the conversation turned to Vegas. It was less weird than Kent expected, although he knew they were both dancing around some of the particulars.

“Why did you move to New York? The Aces wouldn’t have traded you, right? Not right after the Stanley Cup win. I expected them to give you the C or something.”

Kent nodded. “They wanted to. They were ready to re-up my contract, add a no-move clause, the whole nine yards. I just, I never really settled in Vegas, I guess. I’d made a few friends, some guys on the team I’m still close with, but it was hard being all the way across the country. When the Rangers put out feelers – Smith was retiring as Captain, they were looking for something long-term…” He shrugged. “I was interested.”

Eric made a supportive noise. “I reckon it’s nice being closer to family. I know I’d love to have my mama closer than a plane ride away.”

Kent shrugged again. “I’m not really close with my mom and stepdad. It’s cool to be near my sister, though.” He couldn’t hide a grin as he bragged a little. “She’s a senior at NYU, majoring in Biomolecular Science. A total whiz kid. I have no idea where she gets it.”

Eric smiled at him and something warm fluttered in Kent’s belly.

“What about you? How are you liking New York?”

Eric tensed subtly, a tightness in his shoulders and jaw, before he relaxed and leaned forward.

“It’s great. I mean, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, y’know? I always wanted to see the world outside Georgia, and this is my chance.” His smile faltered and he picked at the napkin in front of him. He appeared to be thinking.

“I never really thought New York was where I’d end up, but it’s been a good change. When–”

Eric stopped. Kent held his breath as Eric exhaled and squared his shoulders.

“When Jack and I broke up, I was worried I wasn’t gonna find anything up north and I’d have to move home with my parents. I felt like such a failure. When Shitty – he’s a friend of mine from college – when Shitty helped me land this internship, I was nervous as all get out. New York City, lord. But if this was my chance to stay and make something of myself, I wasn’t going to waste it.”

Kent nodded and watched Eric’s face. This was the most personal conversation he and Eric had ever had – shit, it was the first time either of them had mentioned Jack – and he watched Eric’s eyes for any sign of regret.

Eric glanced up and caught Kent’s eyes, then returned his gaze to his napkin and huffed a little laugh.

“Listen to me, ramblin’ on. You’ve probably got all sorts of important things to do today and here I am, monopolizing your time with my life story.”

Kent wanted so badly to reach out and press his fingers against Eric’s face, smooth the frown from his cheekbones. He squeezed his fingernails into his palms under the table.

“I like your life story,” he offered.

Eric looked up, questioning.

Kent smiled in a way he was sure looked dopey, but whatever. “I mean, I like talking to you. Although your choice in cafes is abhorrent. I’m totally choosing the next location. Us New Yorkers gotta educate you newbies.”

His chirp had exactly the desired effect. Eric’s eyes lit up and he straightened in mock indignation.

“Abhorrent? Mister Parson, this café is adorable. Where would you have us meet, a hot dog cart?”

“Somewhere that respects the sanctity of the bagel, for starters.”

Eric laughed, full and rich. He shook his head as he began to bus their dishes. “Well, you just let me know what New York institution you think I need to try first, and we can meet there for next month’s meeting.”

Kent smiled and grabbed their things. He wants to do this again, his sentimental brain thought stupidly.

When they got outside, Eric turned to walk toward the subway at the same time as Kent started walking the other way. They both stopped and turned quickly to face each other, and Eric nearly collided with Kent’s chest. Kent grabbed Eric’s upper arm instinctively, steadying him as he laughed.

Eric’s cheeks flushed at the contact, and at that moment Kent wanted Eric so, so badly. Eric was handsome and bright. He lit up Kent's day like a ray of sunshine through clouds.

And okay, Kent realized that was a corny metaphor. And the whole 'cloudy day' thing wasn't totally accurate – Kent loved his life in New York. He was at the peak of his NHL career, leading the league in assists and taking his team to the playoffs for three consecutive years. He liked the guys he played with, he’d made friends, and he kept in touch with Troy and Scraps.

Hell, he’d even dated a little, something he couldn’t have imagined as a rookie in Vegas. Neither of his recent ex-boyfriends had been endgame material, but he was proud of himself for the serious therapy that finally helped him feel stable enough for a relationship.

In short, he hadn’t expected a small Southern blonde to burst into his life and turn everything on its head. But right now, he felt like there was an Eric-sized hole in his world, and here was Eric, right in front of him.

Eric’s laugh faded and he looked up at Kent with wide, vulnerable eyes. Kent stared at his eyelashes, flitting open and closed as he blinked.

Oh god, Kent suddenly realized he’d been staring for way too long. Had Eric noticed? He dropped the hand on Eric’s arm.

“I, um–” he started, stopped.

Eric jumped in, “I, uh, I’ll email you about the advertising placements.”

“Yeah, the advertising placements,” Kent echoed.

They watched each other in silence. Eric licked his lips, and Kent’s mouth went dry.

“I have to get to the office,” Eric said finally. He waved a hand in the general direction of midtown, but kept his eyes glued to Kent's.

Kent nodded. “I should get home, feed Kit before she gets hungry and starts hunting the neighbors.”

Eric laughed, and just like that the moment passed.

“Take care now, Kent. I’ll be talkin’ to you soon.”

Kent returned the smile. “You too, Eric.”

He watched as Eric walked away. He lifted his left hand and lightly traced his lips with his fingers. If he concentrated, he could almost imagine the feeling was Eric's lips brushing his.

Fucking hell, he was such a sap. He shoved his hands in his pockets and, when Eric’s blonde head finally disappeared down the subway stairs, he turned and walked toward home.

[originaldetectivesheep]

Year in Review - Stuff I Wrote In 2017

In comparison to 2016, 2017 was a down year.  I wrote only about 285,000 words, down from 423,000 the year before, and put out three books rather than five -- two collections, one of which was mostly written in 2016, and a NaNo book.  I counted 37 pieces completed as opposed to 44, and was not able to finish the big project I started in April reviving Sword of the Spirit.

However, this is a "down year" mostly because 2016 was so stupidly huge.  I can accept O(300k) words as a yearly yield, and the projects that I did this year taught me a great deal about what I can do and what my real capabilities are, and where I go from here.  I'm probably getting ahead of myself if I'm thinking about publishing as more than a DIY sideline, but in all likelihood, I am not far from the point where I can submit to pubs and get non-form rejections back.  It remains only to try.

This, then, is how I see 2018 shaking out.  I want to move house sometime in late Q1 or early Q2, like I was leaning towards last year before work got in the way; in late January and February, then, I'll probably do another intensive as per Thirty and One Nights to generate non-reprint works to submit.  Early January will be about building the submission queue and priority infrastructure to consume those.  The normal delay in rejections will run into Q2, when I want to, in addition to keeping the pub queue fed, do another web series for summer release.  I'm currently collecting idea seeds for that, with a rough idea of two short or ultra-short stories per week, for the one cour only; probably more information as that comes.

That will run into October, which is right up to NaNo time again.  The idea that I'm developing for November is a SF take on the lines of Talbot Mundy or Gordon MacReagh on African survival; this will require a lot of work in concepting but not as much in research as it stands, but this also may change before I actually sit down and start hitting keys on it.  Depending on how the start of the year goes with regard to publication attempts, this may be live-published or held back for print submission; again, this is putting the cart way before the horse ten months out.

Takings-wise, I sold another copy of Three Pretenders... to someone in the UK in May, and made about another 55 cents between the US and Australia in July and August from Kindle Unlimited.  I also got my direct deposit set up, so that nearly-a-dollar has actually all been delivered, woot.  This sort of account balance is why I've been publishing more volume for free: since I'm not going to get paid for it anyway, I'd rather not get paid for stuff that people will be able to read with the least encumbrance possible.

[kivaqblog-blog]

It’s Never Too Late, or, Wishing Upon a Star

This one isn’t literature or memoir, it’s something for people who may be landing here for the first time, especially if you’re trans and you think it’s too late to start. (Hi!) Or even if you’ve been here before. (You know who you are.)

It’s never too late. I thought it was, but it wasn’t. That doesn’t mean it won’t feel that way sometimes. There are days, like a lot of you, when I literally cannot leave the house. This was one of them. A day wasted inside, writing and crying, or neither, or playing with my new tarot deck.

I try to imagine what I’d wear if I went out: it certainly wouldn’t be this shirt, white cotton marled in purple. Or this bracelet I made myself, from those big European glass beads, I’m afraid to go out alone with that on. Just because I don’t want to attract attention. Last week I went to see my shrink wearing a black turtleneck and black workout pants. I go again in two days and I have a feeling it may be a sleeveless version of the same basic idea. I’m not afraid of not passing, because I’m not trying. I fucking hate makeup, so I don’t wear any. (I know, I’m lucky I live in New York City, sometimes I forget. Not for long, though.) 

I’ll bring the bracelet. I’ll wear it during therapy.

I’m looking out the window, it’s warm, it’s sunny, my old birthday is in a week….

I don’t feel old, exactly, just sore. I’ve felt more alive than in years since I started HRT last June 28th. Which turns out to be Stonewall Anniversary Day as well—it can be easy to forget since the day of the march is always Sunday and moves around the end of June—and my wife calls it my birthday. (Yes, I’m ridiculously lucky in love. Once I found her, of course; and that took years. But we’ve been together nearly 26 years. We have a wonderful son who’s in college now. I realize only lately, looking back over it all, how much Goddess has blessed me.) 

It was only lately that I was sure she really saw me, or at least that her followers did. Thirty years ago I was taking a course that changed my life, Women and Religion, at Hunter College. From Dr. Serinity Young, she’s at Queens College now. (She is awesome, btw.) While in that class, I learned just exactly how badly I wanted to find Goddess, to follow the Dianic tradition. And I found out how badly the Dianics, the only trad I was interested in -- because no men, and no gods -- that they hated women like me, back then. Trans women, I mean. Transsexuals, we were called then. It was 1987, and I decided that if I had to wait, I would wait. 

I finally attended a Dianic open circle for women last month. I can be awfully patient, if I have to be. 

So I’ll be 59, in June. One year of HRT. Woot.

But when my birthday was in April, about now is when I’d start to get really depressed. Which is happening this year, too.

I literally don’t know how to ask for help. I don’t know if you’re the same way, maybe just because you’re afraid you won’t get it. I don’t know if you’re a survivor of any kind of abuse, although a lot of us are; I am.

I have PTSD. This may be something I should mention at the top of the blog. I don’t even like writing it in upper case, lower case is safer: ptsd. See? But it’s as important as anything else in understanding what’s happened to me, and to a lot of us. It’s part of why I’m afraid to leave the house even if I want to; beyond violence and cruelty, it’s everyday, minor-league humiliation that terrifies me. 

I hate being laughed at. I don’t want to be on display. I’m not in the sideshow. I want to go out, I just want to not be so fucking noticed. That won’t ever happen. 

Unless I don’t go out.

___________

My wife Kathleen’s bff is in town, they went to lunch and for a long walk. They don’t get to see each other often, her bff lives in Wellesley, Mass. The last time I saw one of my besties was after Thanksgiving last year, she happened to come through town. She lives in Greenfield, Mass. My other bff lives in Medford, which is near Boston. I’m at least four hours away, on a good day, from either of them. Five, more like.

They dropped by, and I chatted with her for like five minutes. But she’s staying with her family in Williamsburg, which takes nearly an hour to get to on the subway from here even though it’s in Brooklyn, technically. It’s easier to get to Newark from here, and that’s in another state. So Kathleen drove her back there.

And I felt irrationally, or maybe rationally, jealous that her best friend was here, and I haven’t seen one of mine in months either, and I’m afraid to go out alone on days like this and I’m afraid to cry. For some reason I can’t tell her this. The brutal conditioning of everyday life as a boy, I suppose. It reminds me of Leslie Feinberg, who wrote Stone Butch Blues, although I’m not like that. Because I’m not butch, much less made of stone, I can cry; but I don’t want anyone to know. I hide. That’s bad, I know, but I do it anyway. Some kind of half-assed defense mechanism. Because we came from cultures where big boys don’t cry, didn’t we?

I wish I could tell you it was happy times every day, but it’s only on some days. I mean, there are wonderful days, I had some last week. Let me be clear: I’m so much happier now. A low bar to clear, but I so am happier. Then there are days like this, too, where it’s just fucking unrelenting sad and awful, and I don’t know how to ask for help even though Kathleen is in the living room. So I ordered Indian food instead.

But before I resumed my transition (first one was 1995-2001, had to pause my transition but I have a lot of material to write about, at least), there were weeks on end where I was unrelentingly depressed, just as depressed and a lot angrier, just losing it at random shit like a MetroCard dispenser that won’t take my card. Estrogen saved my life, I’ll tell anyone who asks. Taking estrogen, for me, is like finally taking my finger out of a live light socket after having it stuck there for years, so long I forgot (or never knew) that it isn’t normal to feel a constant electric current running through you. Taking spironolactone finally got the testosterone out of the way -- spiro is a miracle, we didn’t have it in the 90s and I can tell the difference -- and after a few months I started having feelings, even difficult ones. It didn’t kill me. And finally I was able to be happy, too, ffs. Sometimes. Now and again. Used to be, it just didn’t happen. I felt spent, consumed with anger, and kind of waiting to die. Not so long ago, either.

Since I started HRT I feel like I have the emotional energy, and emotional vulnerability, of a teenager, to be specific of the most unpopular, geekiest girl in her high school grade. “Even if I’d been born cis” is a game I try not to play with myself; but I have a feeling that even if I had been, some things would still be problems. I’m a nerdy recluse who likes to meet people travel, an introvert who can’t shut up once she gets going, the girl who can’t dance, the girl who didn’t get invited to the party everyone else in tenth grade went to anyway so who cares if you can dance or not? Some things never change.

There are lots of days I am able to reach out to people. I just have to open Facebook, right? Some days are like this one, though. I have this button pinned to my calendar of physical changes, what should happen and by when. It has the trans flag colors behind the words: “Sometimes, courage is the little voice that says I will try again tomorrow.” When I feel like I’m stuck, I look back at where I was this time a year ago, in astonishment, and try to keep in mind that I’m human. I can’t do five things at once, I’ve tried. But I can do a lot more than I thought was possible.

Because a year ago, we’d just gotten back from a conference that happened to be in Anaheim. I wished I could go to Disneyland when I was seven, more or less, but I grew up in Texas. That was that, I figured. And it didn’t happen until I was 57; but it happened. We stood there and watched the fireworks behind Sleeping Beauty’s Castle, like I’d always wanted, and I just kept thinking: It’s never too late. 

So, I’ll post this now.