Twenty-seven

It feels like I'm living in a box when at work or at home, wearing blinders when I'm actually outside. Yesterday's road trip was, really nice. At one point Z, J and I were sitting on top of a high, rocky hill overlooking the sea at sunset, and there were clear-cut sunbeams slicing through the heavy clouds right over the water. It was a moment in time I hope to never forget.

"My mother used to say that when the light shines through like that, God is talking to someone," J said.

I like J's mom.

Tim Minchin's Hilarious Insights on Life

Twenty-six

At work, I often come across some pretty shitty copy written by businessmen whose mother tongue is not English and whose appreciation for the rules of grammar is as negligible as their choppy grasp of the language. That being said, I have never had the misfortune of editing copy that is so warped, so senseless, so weak it practically crumbles under its own weight, as I have over the past few days while helping a friend proofread his LGBT e-magazine's articles.

Why? Why do you write if you clearly can't string a single coherent sentence together? I get so frustrated working on pieces like this. It takes time out of my life that I'd rather be spending reading slash, gaming, being chewed and shredded by the Flatmate, taking out the trash, vegetating in bed, ANYTHING. Just not this. Not this.

But here I am, editing article after article of utter crap. There are good pieces in there, of course. Many of which I've enjoyed reading. But it's those handful of pointless quagmires that are making life miserable at the moment. I've tried recommending scrapping them, but apparently "they're important".

Sure. Whatever. FML.  
 

Twenty-Five

This makes me a horrible person, but I can't stand my five-year-old niece. That being said, my 10-year-old nephew has always been a pleasure to be around, even during his hellion days. Hanging out with him doesn't stress me out. While he's messy, he isn't deliberately a slob, he doesn't eat crap and then ignore me when I tell him not to touch the furniture or not to drop chicken on the floor for the pets to get at. He's never demanding, he doesn't nose around and meddle in everything he can reach, he's not loud and obnoxious, and he sure doesn't try to get off as fucking cute while doing shit. You know what I mean. Kids who think they're so adorable, they lay on the coy sweetness too heavy to get attention or get away with stuff. 

Kids. I don't mind the clumsy, well-meaning ones. It's the manipulative, older-than-their-age sort that I can't stomach. And it shows on me. I can't keep it in. It doesn't phase my niece, who seems to like me just fine, but it pisses off my sister - her mom - and it draws the attention of the family. It sometimes feels like I'm the only sane person in the room. So what if my tone turns sharp when the brat is wiping her hands all across the table after eating eggs with her fingers? I'm not cussing her, I'm not traumatizing her, I'm just telling her not to do it and to go wash her hands. So what if I tell her to hold onto the new plate I bought to stop it flop slipping off her bouncing lap? I'm not "waiting for her to screw up", I KNOW she's going to screw up, I'm just trying to control the damage. That should her mom's job, but she doesn't even notice it.

Fucking kids.

Gender Change - Full Episode

FTM transition: One year on testosterone

Twenty-four

It started when a gay friend asked me why I was so supportive of the LGBT community when I was so clearly straight. I'm always uncomfortable with that question, because I don't know how much to admit. With this friend, I sort of took a little leap of faith and switched from my usual "because if it were me I would have wanted to be supported", to "because there was a while when I was confused about myself and I understand what it feels like".

He couldn't leave it at that, of course. So I explained, and as I spoke he took on a strange look, a suspicious sort of understanding. And then he said, "Q, you do realize that you're describing what they call transgender or transsexual tendencies."

Wow, the discomfort. The squeamishness. The stream of denial. "Nah, it's not like that. I can't be transgender, I grew out of it. You can't grow out of that, right? I'm fine being a woman. Really. No, really. Stop looking at me like that." 

Since then, I've been struggling not to think about it. But inspite of myself, I have been thinking about it, and while I don't know what to do with it, I've started to accept that, maybe, my tomboyish-ness, self-loathing and severe depression as a kid and well into my late teens did have an underlying reason other than crazy hormones.

I'd always hated being a girl. I resented everything about it, from my body to the social norms I was expected to follow. A few times during my early and mid teens I was even thought to be a lesbian by classmates (though they'd never come out and say it to my face) because of the way I dressed and acted. I guess the most telling discrepancy was that, when I dreamed, I was always a guy. It wasn't until I turned 23 that I would sometimes be 'me' when dreaming. Now, I'm always female in my head, and I've even grown comfortable with it. Can you grow out of hating the sex/gender you were born into if you really are transgendered?
 
A more important question is, if I or my parents had recognized my situation for what it was, gender dysphoria, how would my life have turned out? Then again, with my parents being the way they are, maybe it's a good thing that they never realized. Maybe it's a good thing that I never realized, because it would have been too complicated. Especially considering that I like guys.

I really don't know what to do with this. All that I know is that, as ridiculous as it might be, if I'd followed my instincts as a kid, I would have turned out to be a gay guy. But now that I've become 'normal', should I even think about this any more?

Twenty-three

Attempt no. x. I have blocked my favorite slash sites. While slash itself is not to blame for my destructive binges of vegetative procrastination comas, it is my trigger. I remain dubious about my chances of success; my track record is not encouraging. Must replace slash with other, less addictive, pastimes. My apartment still needs a lot of work. My entire life needs a lot of work. 

This must be how drug addicts feel, but the watered down version. 

Twenty-two

Summary of recent events:

• I got promoted to acting manager with no salary raise until the end of the year
• I got pissed off when I discovered that the previous manager – who was utterly incompetent and a complete bitch – got the position by being unsurprisingly bitchy AND had a significantly higher salary, one that she didn't deserve for the crap work she delivered
• I updated my CV and started secretly looking for work elsewhere in an act of true passive aggressiveness
• I cooled off and stopped the job search, but decided to start working under the table editing CVs to make extra income. My first client is a hot older Dutchman, I'll be meeting him soon
• I got asked out by a client on a date; I told him I'd be willing to give dating a go after we've gotten to know each other better as friends. He proceeded to bombard me with sickeningly cute whatsapp messages and needy phone calls at random times of the day. I freaked out and cut off contact. I need to call him and let him know it's not going to work out. Procrastination and avoidance commence
• I took my mom to a Julio Iglesias concert and enjoyed a lovely summer evening of mother-daughter bonding to a backdrop of mermaid-like backup singers and a charming old fox crooning songs I'm not interested in, in a language I don’t understand
• I went broke after renewing my car insurance, car license and driving license. Decided to embrace frugal living. Bought a handful of plain hairbands for over 7 euros last night after going out for overpriced milkshakes and French fries with a new coworker at an upscale café
• Lost my Blackberry, and my work phone's battery is almost dead and I don't have a charger for it. I suspect that someone might be coming into my apartment when I'm not around and either taking things or leaving trash, but then again it might be my paranoia after an American friend of mine told me the CIA used to go into his home when he wasn't around and leave signs as warnings  

Twenty-One

A few weeks ago a couple of friends and I went off on a road trip to check some of the world's oldest mosaics. We ended up on a hill overlooking the beach, stuffing our faces with pastries, comparing memories, and staring at an impossibly full night sky. The museum we'd been heading to was closed. The only thing keeping us company aside from the stars were two security gaurds sitting in the distance and probably wondering what the fuck we were doing parked in the middle of no where.

It was great.

Those two friends will be leaving the country soon. Having trouble finding jobs. And it sucks because I don't often meet people that I enjoy hanging out with. So now I make the most of my time with them, help them polish their CVs, lend an ear when they need to rant and consult, and count down the days until they become 'internet buddies'.

Twenty

Today a client sent an email to a senior coworker complaining that the profile I'd written them was "very weak". First time for everything. But then, I'm not surprised given how I'd been really sloppy with these guys. And I can't bring myself to care. The first sign of disaster. I've also been letting other deadlines and tasks slide; not a smart move if I don't want to ruin the trust and reputation I've made for myself, but I seriously, seriously can't bring myself to care. There's no panic, no anxiety, no gut-wrenching urge to "fix it" and control the damage. What does that mean?

I need a vacation. A long, preferably permanent, paid vacation. So sick and tired of working.

The only highlight is that the flat mate is still with me because she's too fugly and psychotic to be loved by anyone else. As my 5-year-old niece put it the other day: "She's a nice cat, but she's like a killer or something." I think she was just minding my feelings with the "nice" bit.

Nineteen

The flat mate will be leaving me for a nicer, more spacious home. My aunt needs a cat for her garden to keep mice and larger insects dead. The flat mate has proven her hunting skills with two cockroach carcasses to show for it, so she's moving on to better things. Which is good and sad for me: the former because I don't think I can handle any more scratches, and I've caught the ringworm; the latter because I've gotten used to having another living creature that's not insectoid hanging around me. I hate to admit it, but it's going to be a bit lonely without her.

Self pity.

Eighteen

I started writing this morning. I haven't had the urge in years. Many, many years. I haven't set down a plot, I didn't plan anything out, I just opened a fresh Word document and started typing. I'll be uploading each chapter onto a story sharing platform as soon as I'm done writing it. You have to do something to start wanting to do it. Maybe this will get me going again. 

Also, I found a dead cockroach in my toilet. My fourth one since the start of the summer. Where do they come in from? At least the flat mate is doing her job.

Seventeen

I might have jinxed myself the other day with all that talk about productivity. Yesterday was… horrible. Not because I didn't do much, but because I simply didn't. Period. I might have made my way from the couch to the fridge and back when the hunger got too bad, and then from the couch to the bathroom a couple of times. Then, very late at night, from the couch to my bed. Just, vegetated like I hadn't in a long while. Not since I'd moved out. Not since I'd stopped being depressed. And now I'm starting to feel down again. I know I should do something, anything, finish my grocery shopping, take out the trash, call mom, go out with Z and J. Anything. Heck, I should get my car washed. But I haven't got the inclination. Don't like myself when I'm this way.

Sixteen

I'm having a hard time getting up and being productive today. It's already 11:30am and so far I've had a sloppy, sad excuse of a turkey sandwich, fed the flat mate, used the bathroom, and read a lot of slash. I attempted sweeping the living room, but stopped halfway through in favor of reading more slash.

Feel like going back to sleep. Think I will. I can be productive afterwards.

The Innovation of Loneliness

Macklemore reacts to 'Same Love (Doggy style)' parody

Original:

Insanity Fit Test

God. 'Insanity' fit test. I stopped 15 minutes in. Never been this sweaty from physical activity before. Then again, I don't do much physical activity to start with. Must wait for stomach to unstick itself from heart and lungs. Feel like puking. What the hell, so out of shape.