I guess I should call it something.

caseylalonde:

oceanmaster:

axelssonkatt:

adriofthedead:

brekkerslovakia:

halfdeadbears:

twoleftshoes:

throughthehaze:

I don’t get it.

Gets me every time.

…this made my night better.

hafsdklasdlskdfsf;

Goddamnit, Casey, you can’t hold your liquor.

I can assure you that Casey is having the time of his life.

When he’s tipsy, everything is fucking rainbows.

WHEEEEEEE-

genderbitch:

I’m trying to find trans women who’ve funded GRS using student loans to ask them about how they did it. If I can jack enough loan money, I may be able to pull this off. I know I’ll be in even more debt but I’m in so much already that it’s really not a big change. It’s probably my only chance all things considered.

Reposting here - not that I know many folks in this situation but it’s worth a short for the signal boost.

I’m so going to hell for this story. The idea came to me last night and my friends demand I take a swing at it.

God’s Twinkling Eyes
 

Nicky threw open the hatch on their semi trailer’s tank and held his head to one side. The air filled with acrid smells: rot, flesh, vitriolic acid. The fluid trickled into a thick, yellow cloud that wrapped around the hatch’s entrance, burning long furrows into the metal there. Later, this truck would be sent to the junkyard and crushed by the Archbishop’s crew, then buried by the Friars of His Holiest Landfill and Organic Avocado Farm, never to be seen again.

Canioli - Cain to his friends in The Family - carried a small boy over his shoulder. the boy was stone cold dead, just like every other member of the small Church of St. Mary’s Grace was going to be in a few hours, transubstantiated by Christ’s postassium cyanide-laced blood. The building smelled of feces and incense mixed tobether. “We have the cops paid off for another twenty minutes, boss. You want me and the boys should start bringing bodies!”

“They have to be naked!” Nicky spat. “Do I have to do everything myself? Take off their clothes, leave them in the pews, and _then_ bring their bodies to the truck! This is the rapture, not a hit. We have to leave something behind.” Of this the Church made sure to emphasize. The priest that contracted them had a bone-chilling way of doing it, too: “Remember, we exist around the world. If you so much as breathe wrong, you will be saved.” Then the old man crossed himself and kissed his ring as if annointing the sick.

Nicky still got chills from it.

“Sorry, boss. Not used to the protocol.” Cain was wearing gloves, just like every other handyman they’d brought for the job. Usualy they were cracking drug dealers, stool pigeons. Working for the Church was a new experience entirely. Not that they minded; variety is the spice of life where murder is concerned. One can only do so many cement shoes before it stops being interesting.

“Ten minutes, then we roll. Women and children first, then pick the guys that look like they were nice people. If we don’t get to them all people’ll just think they were bad men.”

“Got it, boss.” Cain poked his head back into the building, screamed something in Italian, and within seconds the handymen were hauling bodies two at a time to the trailer like so many potato sacks, tossing them through the hole. Hydrogen and burnt skin filled the air with fumes. Nicky threw on a respirator and tried not to dissect the orchestra of odors hitting his nose.

Besides, he couldn’t get to comfortable here. Soon they’d get another call, another church asking for disposal services, another chunk of change paid to the fuzz while Nicky and his mob cleaned up the souls that’d be saved by the morning news the next morning. One way or another, God’s eyes would twinkle for the rapture.

The revision went well. I have never been awake for a surgery before - it was weird feeling the stitches go in. I got a couple dozen more holes poked into me and tied up in thread, as well as a lecture on dilation technique. (Apparently that may have ben the cause? I don’t know. THe language barrier is sometimes frustrating.)

In any case, rest for now. And tramidol. Definitely not forgetting the tramidol.

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The tables turn so quickly. Here, 12 hours out from Chicago, I am the only white girl in the world. This is a good thing.

There’s a certain magic to flying. It fucks with your frame of reference: step onto a plane, deal with some shaking, and 12 hours later you’re halfway across the world and wondering just how in the hell Dior and Birkenstock and Starbucks got to be so popular in the first place. Incheon is an incredible airport — nicer than many of the malls I’ve been around — and has an air about it that is at once familiar and confusing. Fashion is slightly different. Business, more communal. There are more clerks per customer here than I’ve ever seen in America.

I can’t say enough awesome things about Korean Air. It’s impossible to create a happy experience in coach but they did a good job of faking it.  In four hours I’ll be in Bangkok. Can’t wait. There will be a warm bed waiting for me.

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I’m here.

In and of itself this is a big statement. It’s been a long time coming but I’m finally on my way for GRS. I want to commemorate it in some way, and in many ways I have celebrated it more than I probably should. But now the celebrations are over, the preparations finished, and all that’s left is to sit in the O’Hare airport and wait until they start boarding. Two flights from now I’ll be in Thailand. Three days from now I’ll be laying on an OR table, waiting to go back to sleep.

People have asked why I went with a Thai doctor. The simplest answer is that a friend of mine did the same. I disagreed with her decision at the time but once she got back she couldn’t stop talking up Suporn’s work. I’ve heard from a few folks that you can’t really go wrong if you pick the top-tier folks but hearing a personal recommendation sold me on the doc.

Beside me a young Korean boy plays a Kirby game on his GBA. I’m sort of embarrassed that I know this just by the sounds coming from his game. I’d be playing my own games if I had wi-fi — too bad on that bit, really. Would love to play some TF2 right about now.

My mind is in a thousand different places right now. Partly I’m excited to arrive in Thailand, to explore the streets, take video, watch the world go by. Part of me is terrified of surgery in any form, and is dreading the actual surgery and recovery. Part of me is looking to four months from now, once everything heals and the pain is just another distant memory. Part of me is wanting to work on the novel behind this little diary window but knows it just won’t happen - my brain’s already filled to capacity and there will be no more room at the inn for more thoughts.

Priority one when I’m done with this surgery? Writing. I’ve got a story that is begging to head into draft and a novel that needs revision and publication. I’m ready to take that capital-W Writer mantle.

What I’m most excited about is being finally finished with the whole self-centered mess. It’s always been a problem of mine but lately the whole “I can’t think of you because I’m busy with me” thing has been a real impediment in my relationships. If I’ve annoyed the shit out of any of my friends, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Things will be better when I get home, I promise.

I’m just glad the emotional weight will be lifting sooner than later. Honest. Once this is all over I get to stop worrying about being trans and go back to being a woman. This sounds like a simple shift but it’s a big deal in my head.

marbutt:

hello my pal john mccain how are you today

oh its time for night?

okay…

good night my friend…….. till another day……..

yeah. been there, done that. O.O

I don’t consider myself a poet (Much more comfortable as a novelist) but I enjoy doing it on occasion. Written as a way to process my upcoming surgery / ground I’ve covered in transition.

A letter to October 2008

If at first you are excited, wait.
Your brain will receive for the first time in its existence
the hormones wrongly denied to it from birth.
You will dance. You will sing songs of joyful elation, shouting notes at the top of your lungs,
revelling in the way your mouth forms the syllabus over and over again, as if in a fit of sneezing:
“I’m going to be a girl!” 
For three hours you will experience a happiness not unlike sex, or enlightenment, or nirvana and

Then

the mood changes.
Over everything a tight-lipped fear like gauze
realizing that there is no going back.
You’ve tasted freedom and can never be a man again.
Claustrophobia: I’m stuck in a boy’s body and have to get out!
Anxiety: My family will hate me!
Trepidation: I’ll never get a job!
Don’t panic:
you will be a successful girl
eventually.

Now is the time to talk to your parents:
not a month from now,
not when you go full time,
not when you have to go over
and try to act like nothing is wrong
even though you’re wearing a sports bra
to press down your new breasts
and mom gives you a hug
and realizes what you’re wearing
and this wide-eyed look of terror
shrouds her face—
Tell her now.
Honesty will save her heartache later.

And don’t make it dramatic—
You are not a lifetime special.
There will be no sad piano music when you tell them
and there will be no soft focus when they start crying;
coming out is like the five o’clock news.
Get in, get the point across, get out.
Headline, nut graph, quotes.
“I’m a girl”
“I’ve always felt like a girl.”
“The medicine makes me feel better.”
Do this, and nothing more.
You will thank me later.

Be patient.
It won’t happen all at once.
Puberty doesn’t happen in two days, or two weeks, or two months.
You are thirteen years old all over again, only now you have to relearn everything.
You will think you pass. You won’t.
You will wear blouses and dresses you think look cute on you. They won’t.
You will talk to people you think don’t know your history. They will.
But you’ll do it anyway
because all thirteen-year-olds
have to fail before they get it.
You are no exception.

Yes, this will hurt you. This will frustrate you.
It’s not society’s fault, not God’s fault, and it sure-as-hell isn’t your fault.
It’s just the way growing up is.
You will scream in abject frustration when your voice drops down to the male register while you’re ordering food at a restaurant and the guy switches you back to the “sir” column for the rest of the night.
You will want to throttle every well-meaning woman who walks into your life to say “You’d be a better girl if,” followed by some unsolicited advice about makeup or clothing or hair.
(Later, you’ll realize it’s just small talk. Trust me.)
You will stare into the mirror for hours, wondering what about your face screams “boy” even though you paid hundreds to burn off all the facial hair in countless painful laser sessions, spent hours practicing your walk, your voice, your smile, your gestures.
You will spend nights crying and wondering what in the hell possessed you to say this was a good idea, when everybody stares and laughs as you walk past, hot mess that you are, a raging tweenager in a twentysomething body.
You will want to quit:
not once, but many times.

But hang on, sister.
in two years you’re going to be me
and things are going to relax.
Transition is like zen: the less you think about it the better you do.
I know you won’t believe this now, but
you’ll get to a point where you can choose to talk about being trans, and in your silence women discuss their periods, and their sex lives, and their favorite bras, and hot guys (and girls!), and vibrators, and all the other topics of conversation men never know exist,
and
the person you’ve worked with all weekend, seeing a woman early in her transition, says “you never know what’s under a heshe/s skirt,” and you rebuff him by saying “You never know when you’re talking to a trans person” — twice — without him putting two and two together,
and
when that guy behind the lunch counter, after undressing you with hungry, intense eyes, shoots a crude “We like getting girls wet” pickup line your way as you order your queso burrito
and
when you say, “I don’t get men!” to your girlfriends and realize that you completely, totally don’t think it’s an ironic thing to say—and why would it? you’re a girl. Men aren’t supposed to make sense!
and
your memories start morphing, the boy slowly being written out of them, until there comes a point that you look at old pictures and can’t even hope to recognize yourself, and you vaguely remember that at one point there was this jerkwad of a guy who lived your life for two dozen years, even if you can’t remember what it was like to be him,
This all will happen. Trust me.
You will assimilate, and despite a few existential crises regarding your own queerness you’re going to like it just fine.
It’s all a matter of time.

For now, though,
dance. sing.
The first step. Always the hardest
Walk. Come through the mirror and
wonder
how this was even difficult in the first place.
believe it or not, this pain will all be forgotten.

Anxiety + fear + stress = sneaky hate spiral in me, apparently. I never, _ever_ get angry at people, for any reason.

abandontheships:

introvertsarepeopletoo:

By my CompSci teacher.   Referred to me as ‘he’ at a glance.

…Of course, then I looked up and she went, “—Er, she.”  BUT STILL.

STILL!

(I was already feeling pretty good about myself today but heeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyy.)

Dear, I’ve told you—if you actually ask her, she’ll switch. Out of every professor that’s been supportive, she’s actually probably at the top of the list as far as my personal experience goes.

This was my experience for about a year and a half - people couldn’t get the pronouns worth shit. However, wait a year and people will be more likely to look at the attendance sheet and think there’s an error. (“Why do they have you listed as male, dear?” “I keep asking them to fix it, but if you could correct it in your roll that’d be awesome.” Done and did.)

Two and a half years down the road I’ve gotten to the point that people actually let their guard down and make nasty jokes about trans folk around me - which while humiliating gives me a chance to smack them down and say “You’ll never know when you meet or befriend a trans person.” Most times, they don’t even consider putting two and two together.

Have faith - this is a passing phase. (Do I get bonus points for the pun?)

fuckyeahtrannies:

madamsirmadam:

I don’t reblog nearly enough Eddie Izzard.

saw a sundress at Kohl’s today. Thought: “I wish I could look good in that.”

Tried it on.

I bought a sunddress at Kohl’s today.

Guilty. *smiles*

…but it won’t get out of my head. It’s catchy as hell.

Are all men like this? Videos of dudes getting hit in the junk? Endless sports? Cars and action movies? Seriously, I don’t remember seeing this anywhere in their manual.

That, or I’ve just come so far along as to be completely, totally incapable of “thinking like a cisguy.” methinks I like that description better.