I look at this picture & I think "yuck!"
Then I think, "ok, it's really not so bad."
Then I think "yuck!"
Then I think "its okay. I'm not wearing any makeup or anything and I just got out of bed. What do you expect?"
Then I think, "Well makeup wouldn't change things appreciably! Unless you put it on thick as a mask! You're still you! Lipstick on a pig, etc."
Then I think, "But still….give me a break! All in all..."
Then I think "No...yuck! i'm hideous!"
Then I think, "oh come on, surely not hideous!"
Then I think, "but still yuck. look at that stupid, glimpy look on your face!"
Then I think, "well, alright, but my body isn't bad, all considered."
Then I think, "Could be THINNER!"
Then I think, "Alright, I'll eat less today."
Then I think, "Oh right! You're always hungry as it is!"
Then I think, "so what do you want me to do anyway?"
Then I think, "Drop dead & be born as someone else. Or better yet, don't be born again at all."
Then I think, "That's news to me? Any suggestions on how to go about that?"
Then I think, "You're so fucking smart, you figure it out!"
Then I think, "I thought so, nothing but criticism, not one solution to anything."
Then I think, "How about you just fucking shutting up once and for all? How about you not posting your stupid photos?"
Then I think, "Well maybe I won't! Maybe I'll take it down!"
Then I think, "What are you waiting for then?"
Then I think, "I already took it down."
Then I think, "but you put it right back up!"
Then I think, "But I could take it down again."
Then I think, "So do it."
Then I think, "I did!"
Then I think, "It's still here!"
Then I think, "For now!"
Then I think, "What's it here for anyway?"
Then I think, "It's an example."
Then I think, "An example?! An example of what?!"
Then I think, "I don't know." 
Then I think, "Exhibitionist! Crier out for attention!"
Then I think, "Maybe….maybe…maybe it's something else."
Then I think, "What? I'm waiting! Pray tell."
Then I think, "Acceptance? Maybe? A need to say, 'this is me, after hiding so long?' Maybe it's something like performance art? Performing my life through an artistic medium to give it a meaning?"
Then I think, "A meaning? What meaning would that be? You don't believe life has a meaning, so you say."
Then I think, "Well it doesn't."
Then I think, "So what you're saying doesn't make any sense."
Then I think, "No. Didn't I just agree life has no meaning?"
Then I think, "You're cracked."
Then I think, "Who isn't?"
Then I think, "So there's not much point even discussing anything with you, is there?"
Then I think, "No, not really."
Then I think, "So why are we?"
Then I think, "We're really just talking to ourselves. People do it all the time. Talk to themselves. Sing to themselves. You might as well ask them why."
Then I think, "So are you going to take this picture down or not?"
Then I think, "Maybe. Probably not. Who knows?"
Then I think, "I'm going to go take a shower."
Then I think, "Me too."

Tales of My Ex-Penis, Part 4 & 5

I like nonsense. It wakes up the brain cells.
—Dr. Seuss

Life is a sexually transmitted disease and the mortality rate is one hundred percent.
—R.D. Laing

Tales of My Ex-Penis, Pt 2 & 3

It’s become a kind of running joke. But with a serious underlying intent. Daddy will ask me questions out of the blue and I’m to answer, “Because I’m a sissy, Daddy,” in the femmiest, faggiest, lispiest voice I can. If I don’t answer loudly and clearly and “sissy” enough, I’ll earn a spanking, to be administered later in the evening. At first the questions are fairly straightforward and obvious. Obvious enough to indicate that we're about to play our little "game."For instance, it will begin,  “Why are your toenails polished?” “Why are you wearing that short skirt?” “Why do you have that slave collar around your neck?”

To each question, I answer: “Because I’m a sissy, Daddy.”

Inevitably, the questions start getting sillier and sillier until I basically sound like a child answering each of them the same way.

“Because I’m a sissy, Daddy.”

As Daddy explains, when you’re a sissy, it’s the universal answer to every question.

Yesterday, it started in the coffee shop. Daddy started asking me various questions in a normal, sensible tone of voice. As usual, the questions started off fairly sensible, if embarrassing, especially to be asked them in public, on the off-chance that anyone overheard. “Why are you wearing such girly pink sandals?” “Why do you break up your cookie into such tiny pieces?” “Why do you have lipstick on?”

Of course, my answers became more and more absurd as the questioning continued. Soon my answers were such illogical non-sequiturs, so ridiculous, they violated rationality altogether and even what seemed to me the terms of the “game.” But that's the very point of the game. It's really a form of humiliation, a way to force me to abandon all pretense of adult rationality, all personal dignity, all independent thought so that I'm reduced to the equivalent of childish babble and able to answer a question like “Why did that woman order the lemon poundcake” by answering “Because I’m a sissy, Daddy.”

I found myself reduced to laughter, laughing so hard that I was almost in tears. I could barely get the words out as Daddy relentlessly continued his teasing. As is all teasing, Daddy’s questioning is a form of sadism, but it is also a kind of brainwashing, all the more subtle for being so brutally obvious. As I’m reduced to helpless laughter, required to repeat a phrase that is illogical in context, I am subconsciously becoming reprogrammed to think of everything in my life being the consequence of my being a sissy. I'm being reprogrammed not to think, not to take myself seriously, and not to expect anyone else to either. And even though I’m aware of this reprogramming, I can do nothing to keep it from happening; in great part, because I don’t want to keep it from happening. I'm tired of thinking. I want to be a mindless bimbo sissyslut.

"Why is the sky blue?  "Why is the grass green?" "Why is that man selling cherries by the roadside?" "Why do we have to stop at red lights?" This went on the whole drive home and even after we got home and all the way through dinner, too! 

"Why did I have a vegetarian chicken patty and not a pork chop like Daddy?”

“Why do I have only half a slice of swiss cheese?”

“Why do I use a cup decorated with a Hello Kitty?”

“Why is it 5.30 pm?”

“Why did the people next door just pull into their driveway?”

"Why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Because I'm a sissy Daddy."

It's the universal answer.

Whenever anyone asks when did I first know that I was transgendered, my answer isn't what you often hear. It wasn't when I first put on a pair of my mom's panties or slipped into my sister's high heels. It had nothing to do with clothes or makeup or hairstyles. It didn't even have anything directly to do with sex. In fact, there was no one event that brought about a sudden a-ha moment of self-revelation. Rather it was the slow-dawning realization that I didn't understand boys at all. Everything about them seemed alien to me—how they talked, how they thought, how they acted—it was all incomprehensible and frankly scary to me. They seemed loud and aggressive and excitable and dangerous. I didn't understand their attitudes towards their bodies or their attitude towards girl's bodies. I felt distinctly and oppressively uncomfortable around them. I can never remember a time when I wasn't trying to figure out "how to be a boy." And failing. They were like a completely different species entirely. Worst of all, I was constantly baffled and frustrated that I was supposed to be one of them! As time went by, this expectation became an increasingly terrible burden, both psychological and physical. A lot of years were trashed, a lot of people were hurt, not even including myself, by society's insistence that I somehow (how?!) make a man out of myself, any kind of man, even a gay man. They might as well have asked me to make a 747 jet out of a pipe cleaner.

I've always made the same mistake with people who've hurt me. Going back for more, having already suffered their abuse, their indifference, their disdain. Ignoring what I've already seen of their character. Continuing on with them as if they were going to somehow magically change when they never so much as apologized or even acknowledged what they’d said and done to hurt me in the first place.

I go back to them with none of these issues resolved. And what they think is…….oh here she is again. Whatever she was upset about wasn't that important after all. And they proceed on that basis to hurt me all over again in the exact same fashion. And why not? Why should they ever alter to accommodate me when I’m so eager to accommodate even their abuse? When they know I'll be back.

Is that what I want? No? Well it would sure seem to be based on my behavior. I've told myself a hundred times before. When people show you a side of themselves that’s cruel and contemptuous and utterly self-centered, run! Don't pretend you didn't see it or that when the curtain draws back a second time there will be a different picture painted on the wall. As if this were a magic show. It isn't. Just run. Don't stop. Don't look back. Run.

It's not hard if you don't keep thinking about it, playing the movie back in your head, putting all kinds of reasons and excuses into their mouth to justify what they did when they themselves couldn’t be bothered to justify it themselves.  

Listen….hear that? Right. There's no sound at all. They aren't even calling you back. Don't go back there on your own accord, crawling on your belly like a beaten dog!

But, but, but…it’s just that saying goodbye to someone  forever can be so heartbreaking. Not in any corny  Hallmark way…but existentially…cosmically…Greek drama put-your-own-eyes-out tragic…this unique and mortal individual will be passing from your life and one day from life itself…and you will never see them again. Never! There's this one transit in eternity when you're in orbit and then you're both whisked away in different directions. One day they will be utterly unseen…unseeable…for eternity…even with the most powerful telescope and then it will be too late, too late forever.

How can anyone make that call? How do you become so strong? Cold? Calloused?

How can anyone choose to annihilate another from your life like that?

How, in the face of that great irretrievable loss, can people not come to some kind of understanding…not be considerate of each other? Don’t they realize how little time there is to be kind, to cherish, and to understand one another? Don’t they realize the enormity of the loss that waits just around the corner of every human life?

It just seem terrible to me, intolerable, a pain too big to hold inside one body, one mind, one heart…like the grief will just reach a critical mass & explode me into subatomic particles…

That kind of thinking is a blueprint for abuse. It’s a formula for perpetual hurt. It’s a “kick-me” mentality.

Run, don’t look back, don’t so much as think twice about it. Remember Lot’s wife; if you turn, you’re screwed. Finished. Pillar of Salt.

And yet and yet and yet….no more and yets…

Oops, I’m turning….tasting salt on my lips...

RUN!

RUN!
RUN!

I have a dream about being in a seminar room taking a math test. The questions are all like this one: "If a car cost $2,160 to build in 1970 and a refrigerator cost $385 to manufacture in 1987, how much will it cost to erect a city building in 2006." There's supposedly a way to figure this out, but I'll be damned if I know it! Everyone around me is scribbling away in their test booklets. I sit there staring at mine like a cow staring at the interstate. I wake up feeling frustrated, my neck crooked at an odd angle, and a dull throbbing in my left eye. It's time to get up. 

No, this is not me. My nipples are a little smaller & so is my clittie. But it struck me that it could be me. Daddy sent me this picture in his morning email round-up of internet sissygirls he finds sexy.  I found this one sexy, too. And not just for the lamentable, narcissistic, egocentric reason that her body reminded me of mine. But because that body, clad in that flimsy little nightie, looked surprisingly erotic to me. Surprisingly erotic…since I am terribly ashamed, under any circumstances, to show my non-standard "girl" parts. To me they are an aberration, a deformity, an awful flaw, like some hideous mole or scar. However, the girl in this photo, resembling me, provided a rare and unexpected mirror revealing to me how those parts—my parts—might actually look sexy to someone else. If I were wearing this nightie, I would have worn panties for sure. Daddy might have demanded I leave them off and I would have obeyed, of course. But I would have felt ugly and uncomfortable the entire time he played with me. Now, seeing this photo, knowing he found it hot, finding it hot myself, I have a new way to view my body, a new confidence. Well, "confidence" might be too strong a word. Perhaps "acceptance" is a more accurate and better way to describe how I feel.

Daddy said: Oh, baby!  I do understand that you prefer to wear little panties but that nightie is beautiful and for what it's worth, I think you'd look even better!  I'll have to research a cute outfit like that.

NO! 

Better: Your sissy homework assignment is to find a similar very pretty, very sheer pink nightie like that.

No time limit, but keep in mind that daddy is not an especially patient man...

I'm already on it, Daddy! xo

Our curse as humans is that we are trapped in time; our curse is that we are forced to interpret life as a sequence of events—a story—and when we can’t figure out what our particular story is, we feel lost somehow. 

–Douglas Coupland

Daddy bought me a new t-shirt. It came in the mail yesterday
& i couldn't wait to wear it.  As you can see from the close up below it has a special message.

They put little swallow birds on the shirt just in case anyone gets the wrong idea.  Except, in this case,  the wrong idea would be the right idea! 

A drought with hope is not the same as a drought without hope. In the first, every second is venerated because it brings the anxiously desired rain closer. In the second, each instant is hated because it pushes the generating liquid away.  —Alejandro Jodorowsky

Being submissive is a means of gathering information. One can learn a great deal about others and the world by appearing to erase one's own will, by reducing oneself to near-zero. 

While on the surface, a sub surrenders herself, gives herself up, the dominant reveals just as much, if not much more, than any submissive. A submissive's obedience, her agreeable nature, her non-confrontational compliance and total lack of aggression, her expected helplessness, can disarm a dominant and encourage him or her to speak and act with unguarded confidence. As a result, a dominant will reveal otherwise well-guarded truths, secrets, and aspects of themselves they are hardly aware they are revealing. 

A submissive is the ultimate spy in the house of love. 

Maybe, for me, this all originates as a child, crouching (as if at a man's feet,) by the wall of the bedroom, listening at the heating vent to my parents arguing downstairs in the kitchen. Or, even more significantly, to their murmured behind-doors conversations, not quite arguments, but heated and urgent, in which they discussed what was really happening between them in that teetering household. It was only by remaining quiet, passive, as close to invisible as possible, by becoming "all ears," alert to the slightest nuance, the subtlest message, spoken or unspoken, in tone or body-language, ready to obey before being ordered, anticipating the needs of powerful others out of fear of suddenly becoming noticed, which often meant instant punishment, that I survived. 

But more than survived—I acquired the information necessary to succeed to the degree, minor though it's been, that it's been possible for me to succeed in this world. It was as a child, disadvantaged by nature and circumstance, that I learned the incalculable value of submission for one without strength enough to dominate others or even to take full control of her own life in a world seemingly filled with those better equipped, and not always benevolently, to do so. 

This was my education as a submissive. It was a lesson I've never forgotten. Because unlike algebra, it was a skill I really would need later in life…if I intended to endure it.

I thought I was what I am, but in reality I'm still what I was. And that which I was, well, I don't know what it is. Perhaps some day I will know. Then I'll be what I shall be, but I'll stop being what I am now. And ceasing to be what I am now horrifies and terrifies me. —Alejandro Jodorowsky

Left on a park bench in Green Lake, Seattle WA,
where i sat on Daddy's lap making out by the lake.

Some days, like today, Daddy likes to "expose" me by dropping little clues to waitresses, cashiers, shopkeepers, etc. that I'm not the girl I appear to be. That I am, in fact, a sissygirl. Today, at the Chocolati Cafe, for instance, when the girl fixing our hot chocolates asked if we wanted whipped cream, Daddy said, "I don't. Whipped cream is for sissies. But my sissy here would like some. Isn't that right, sissy?" 

The girl behind the counter did a double-take. 

"Yes," I said, in a small voice, flushing with embarrassment. 

But it was okay. The girl serving us had pink hair and when she spoke again to ask us if we wanted anything else with our hot chocolates I noticed that she had a surprisingly masculine voice. I hadn't noticed it at first but I think she may have been trans, too. 

Whew!

Daddy continued his little game when we sat down. Asking me various embarrassing questions and having me admit that I'm a sissy. I'm genuinely frightened when he exposes me like this in public (even though I know I'm never in any real danger with him there to protect me) but later we both know how hot it will make me when we go to bed together. 

I've always gone to great pains to look & act & sound like a real girl in public. So it's a powerful gesture of transgression to be "outed" and put on display for what I really am. It's very erotic and very liberating, too. I realize that in many respects, by taking refuge in an apparently "female" identity, I'm still very much in the closet. Only by being "outed" as a sissygirl, not male, not female, but as a third gender, will I at last cross that final barrier to being truly and proudly who I really am. 

Not a girl. Not a boy. Won't it be a great day when we can all be a gender unique onto ourselves?

Prolegomena to Any Future Bullshit

We were on a mission from God

but He was having none of it

Time waits for no man

but it’ll hang around the back door

an hour or two for a flat-chested woman

with a pair of Dad’s old socks stuffed into her bra

and a questionable reputation

Don’t be impertinent

On second thought

Pie, and its environs

Good things come in small packages

like your eyeballs

a tooth

Bugspray is not an option

Squirrels would enjoy that

A reward is simple

and great

like a ladder

in a coal mine

and you can eat a pile of it

Chicken wings

Bruce Lee

If you put your mind to it

like a shoulder to a door

you’ll surprise the lot of them

playing cards

Bloodclots are like that

or pockets

I’ve got to hand it to you

sooner or later

but let’s not rush things, okay?

It all came down to nothing & of the nothing, there is very little left. –Nicanor Parra

You wanted to meet as “just friends,” or so you claimed, but it must be done in ultra-secrecy. Out of your concern, so you said (without quite saying it), that I might somehow contaminate and/or compromise the rest of your “normal” life. And somehow I’m not supposed to feel hurt and insulted, both by your lack of trust in me and by your shame to be with me? By the implication that I’m unworthy of befriending as any ordinary person might be. I’m no math-whiz but even I know that something about all this simply doesn’t add up; and even if you could fudge the numbers any more than you already have, it certainly doesn’t add up to anything positive. And so that’s all. Goodbye.

Everyone, I'm convinced, is a solipsist. It's synonymous with human nature. We simply cannot know anything or anyone, including ourselves,  outside of a subjective point of view. The scary part is that most people are unconsciously solipsistic. They don't recognize their solipsism. Worst of all, they are so solipsistic and so unconscious of their solipsism that they fail to acknowledge that others have the same right to solipsism as they do. So they are forever blaming others for not satisfying their needs. Or justifying and rationalizing their selfishness. Or accusing others of being self-absorbed. Which is another way of saying, "Why don't you acknowledge my superior reality? Why don't you sacrifice yourself to me?" 

There is such a thing as ethical solipsism. And it consists primarily in this insight: that everyone is equally the center of his or her own universe just as you are the center of yours. Everyone, ultimately, is alone. We are born alone and die alone.  Our world has it genesis and apocalypse with our birth and death. Everyone is their own star, shining alone, in the midst of infinite space. 

*     *     *

One positive thing (and there are several) about being not only solipsistic and self-absorbed, but perhaps also falling somewhere on the Aspergers Spectrum, is that I haven't a hypocritical bone in my body. There is no separation between my public and private personas. I'm totally asocial, outside of society and societal norms of thought and behavior. As a result, when push comes to shove, it's irrelevant to me what other people think of me. Not subject to the pressures most people feel to "belong" or to find approval, I can make radical choices and changes in my life in accordance with my desires. Changes and choices that others would be hesitant to make, or find impossible to make, for fear of meeting with disapproval or dreading that they might be socially ostracized. 

Having never felt a sense of belonging in the first place, I have no fear of not belonging. I know upfront that I'll never belong. I have no position or stake in society. In fact, I feel more comfortable on the outside of everything than on the inside of anything. Nothing makes me feel so trapped as to be "welcomed" into a group. Being welcome, to me, feels like a compromise of my honesty and integrity, an invasion of the borders of my individuality, a diminution and dilution of self. It feels like being swallowed whole.

=I'd Kill Myself But I'm Afraid I'd Botch the Job=

and even I can't imagine that my life would be improved by becoming a bedridden vegetable tended by a non-English speaking healthcare aid in a state-run facility. 

I wake up from a dream that it's not even worth recounting: something where I couldn't manage to say a four-digit number no matter how hard I tried. That's all I'll say about it. 

Except that it also had something to do with Maine.

Where I've never been, by the way.

It's not even five a.m. yet but I know I'm not getting back to sleep. I've already begun the day whether I like it or not.

I reach over to the nightstand and grab my iPad. 

I check my email. Deals. Last chances. 75% off. Viagra. Porn. 

There's an email from Satan. I scan it. The usual. Lost soul. Anal sex. Burnt offering. I hit the "keep new" button and save for a more careful perusal later.

Nothing going on at my blog. 

Or on Twitter.

I check my online horoscope and it says, "Wake up and smell the coffee, you stupid cunt! He doesn't love you anymore! What does he need to do to prove that to you? Hit you across the teeth with a shovel?"

I wonder if that means what it seems to mean?

I make another of the vows I find myself making lately. This one goes: I refuse to humiliate myself anymore in any way that doesn't give some guy somewhere a hard-on.

How old do you have to be before you can finally let yourself acknowledge that you're never going to be what you once planned on becoming because even if by some miracle you did become it now, it's already too late; you wouldn't enjoy it; in fact, come to think of it, you don't even want whatever it was anymore.

What was it, anyway?

I'm thinking of getting a "Best if Used By" tattoo and dating it about five years ago.

Later, in the bathroom, I have to remember to check my ass in the mirror to make sure I didn't actually already get that tattoo last night.

Last night. 

The sum total of what I can remember of it: well, I'll have to get back to you on that later. 

Or later than that. If I ever remember.

I make two lists:

Bad things about Alzheimer disease
1. You can't remember shit.

Good things about Alzheimer disease
1. You can't remember shit.

Why do I always want to say Alzheimer's disease. Like it belongs to someone named Alzheimer? Guy Alzheimer. 

My mother died of Alzheimer disease last month. The last six months of her life she'd totally forgotten who I was. She recognized me, but it was as some other person entirely. I never figured out who, maybe someone from her distant past, someone she knew before I was born. Whoever it was, she sure seemed happy to see her. Her face would light up whenever I walked into her hospice room. Not one flicker of disapproval. Not one word of reproach. This case of mistaken identity was one of the best things she ever did for me. Forgetting who I was, thinking I was someone else. Someone she really liked. It was a real gift. For once she was a good mother and I was a good daughter and I knew what it was like to be loved. Thanks, mom.

Because I make up shit like this does that make me an evil person?

I draft a suicide note:

What did you miserable bastards want from me anyway? Fuck off! Good bye. 

P.S. Please take care of Sashimi. He likes the chicken and tuna from Friskies. I think there's five or six cans left under the kitchen sink.

The pinkies on both my hands feel a little numb and weird right now. They keep hitting the wrong keys on the keyboard and I have to keep going back to correct typos as I write this. I keep making the same mistakes over and over again.  Does this mean I'm having a stroke or something?

I once read somewhere that people having a stroke can't smile with both sides of their face. So I stretch my face into a big skin-splitting shit-eating grin. I can see myself in 
the mirror on the bureau. I look ghastly. I sit there grimacing, quietly having my stroke if that's what I'm having, forcing myself to stay calm throughout. I imagine dying and being found in bed with this big horrible toothy-doofus smile on my face. At my wake people will say, "Well she did die peacefully in bed. That's a blessing. They say she was found with a smile on her face."

Idiots.

Sashimi comes slinking into the room, tail up, head slung low beneath sharp shoulder bones. Like a tiger hunting dust bunnies.

He sits by the side of the bed and stares up at me, yellow-green eyes unblinking. 

His small head is triangular, like a snake's. He opens his white-whiskered, alien-small mouth, but doesn't even bother using his voice. He makes a silent meow instead. He has a mouthful of delicate, thin, needle-like teeth. Like a mackerel.

This is what he's saying: You don't have time for a stroke. I need to be fed. I need to be petted. This isn't all about you. It's not about you at all. Now get the hell out of bed.

He sits there, until I do, using feline mind-control.

Like a ventriloquist, he gets me to say what I don't feel like saying. 

Meeow, I say. Meeow.

I get out of bed.

This, in case you didn't know, is why people own cats.

I used to always think I had to have a reason to record my observations of the day, or even my emotions, but now I think simply being alive is more than enough reason.

—Douglas Coupland

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