When you wear your boyfriend’s merch

7, 10, 11, 12 & 34 ^_^

7) Are you the "token" queer person in your family? Nope! My sister and niece are both queer, and by their own description both my mom and her mom are on the ace spectrum, though they didn't have the language to label themselves that way. My mom's cousin is gay too.

Putting the rest under a cut because my answers got long. 😅🙈

10) Something that gives you gender euphoria (whether you're cis or trans): All of my cute, colorful, silly skirts. All through my childhood and young adulthood I was told by all sorts of folks that I was "bad at being a girl." Which was okay, because a lot of the time I didn't really feel like a girl, although I couldn't say what I did feel like. I had some broomstick skirts that were long and flowy and so much fun to spin in. I loved the sensation of wearing them. I didn't love how people would say it made it even more obvious that I wasn't a good girl, or that I looked or 'felt' weird in them. So I just stopped wearing them for the most part. Then as I got older I tried wearing them to work on occasion, which was just as bad or maybe worse. I kept getting comments on how dressed up or pretty I looked, or how they weren't used to seeing me looking so girly, or questions about if I was trying to find myself a man now, because if so this was definitely going to help. So I stopped again. Then a random patron at work one day gave me a hard time about wearing a pastel purple polo shirt, how it wasn't a good color on me and made me look even bigger than I already am. This is after years of wearing nothing but polo shirts and khakis to work, or jeans and t-shirts on the weekends, being as bland as possible and hoping nobody paid any attention at all to what I was wearing. I got so angry and so offended and so fed up that I was like you know what? I am going to make my off the wall, probably questionable taste and fashion everybody else's problem and I am going to be happy. So I bought myself two maxi skirts in very bold designs: a desert landscape and some flying griffins. Then I decided to finally buy the Maya Kern skirt I'd always wanted, even though a midi skirt seemed too short because it might draw attention to my big calves, which happened a lot when I was younger, and got my legs groped by strangers more than once in my 20's. And every single time that I wear any of those skirts or the other ones I've bought similar to them, I'm so so happy. I can twirl around in my midi skirts and they flare out around me! I can put my hands in my pockets and swish my skirts around and I feel like a fancy dancer or something even though I'm an awful dancer and won't actually dance around at anyone. And everyone compliments what cute patterns they are, or how happy I look wearing them, but nobody really says anything about me being girly. I don't know. That was a lot of words but I still feel like I'm doing a lousy job of describing it. Some days I feel like a girl, but the skirts don't make me feel like more of a girl. Other days, more frequently, I feel like not a girl. I feel nebulous, or like nothing, so far as gender goes. And even though skirts register largely as feminine, and I'm sure they help a lot of people feel more feminine, they actually enhance my neutral gender feelings. Somehow.

11) Favorite (or just one you love) piece of LGBT media: Oh wow, there are so many! I'll start by saying that I have a huge soft spot for pretty much anything put out by Wolfe Video in the early to mid-2000s. I probably need to watch a bunch more of their recent stuff honestly. Anyways, Make the Yuletide Gay is a fluffy holiday favorite I watch almost every year. Were the World Mine is the gay movie I would have killed for in high school. Camp is the one I got as soon as I graduated from high school; it and But I'm a Cheerleader came into my life at just the right time and I'm forever grateful for them. On a similar note, Mercedes Lackey and Tanya Huff's books will always hold a place in my heart for being so matter of fact and lovely with their gay characters, which helped me tremendously as a tween and teen. More recently, Cat Sebastian's books have been game changers for me in the romance field. Her queer characters are so varied and have so many lovely little idiosyncrasies, and even the romances that you assume are straight aren't, because her characters are often by or because gender and attraction are a little more complicated than what you're used to.

12) Name some queer artists/bands or songs you like most: I'll be honest, I don't really listen to a ton of music. Once podcast became a thing I switched over to them by and large for when I have time to listen to stuff. But Placebo was one of the formative bands in my early life and they were queer. I didn't listen to a ton of Green Day, but American Idiot looped in my CD player nonstop, and boy howdy did the line "maybe I'm the faggot America" resonate with me and get me all pumped up. And t.A.T.u's "200 km/hr in the Wrong Lane" was my entire experience for a year in high school.

34) What are you needing most right now (what would make your life easier or more fulfilling in regards to existing as queer)? It would be so nice if people would stop using so much gendered language and phrases about me or in reference to me. I don't mind she / her pronouns, but being called Miss or ma'am or lady skeeves me out a lot of the time. It doesn't bother me at all coming from some of my friends who aren't cisgender, because there's always an implied asterisk, so to speak, but from randos it's the actual worst even though I know they're probably just trying to be polite and don't think anything of it.

Had an interesting conversation today. A valued friend (they/them) I made through my studies asked me my pronouns, and when I said 'any', their reaction was "No, no!" which, I want to be clear likely came from my inflection. But it made me think about the topic in a way I haven't really let myself in a long time.

From their perspective, they'd said 'any' at one time as a compromise, and then became frustrated by one particular usage, and firmed up on asking for they/them. That kind of approach to 'any' makes a lot of sense to me. But it's not why I say 'any'. Where I say in my bio "Any pronouns at this point idk" I mean that in quite literal terms. I do not know.

When I was nine or so, I genuinely had the 'I feel more like a girl' euphoria. And it got shut down, in ways I don't feel were malicious, but closed the door to that possibility at a very young age. My parents weren't intolerant, and very much aren't today, but this was the 90s, a kid spouting that wasn't taken seriously.

Growing up I felt more defined by my autism than my gender. Gender didn't put me in the special needs room outside of lessons, or mean I had a support worker, or special provisions. I was lucky to have support growing up there, I know plenty didn't, but I was 'other' from a young age, not even within the binary. Maybe.

Around 17, realising how 'other' I was, I sought to reject that. I tried to tear every special interest, every scrap of my identity away, and remake myself as what everyone else was. I'm sure plenty of you did that kind of self-destructive masking, and I'm sorry if you went through it too. I leaned into one gender even as I embraced pansexuality.

As an adult, I've tried to follow the path of euphoria in all aspects. If it sparks joy, I take that path. It took me to my fiance. It gave me my writing back. It even took me back to the university I fled a decade before from later-diagnosed trauma.

But it hits a brick wall on gender. I can't find that path anymore. I've tried, and tried, and I think I know deep down what path I'd like to take, but there's so much darkness for me around that route. I want to live my life to the fullest, and from my situation, I don't feel I can if I take that route.

Except.

If I go by 'any', I can be schrodinger's gender. A mostly unadvertised 'any' means I can cope with what I'm called, whilst holding onto what that little girl wanted all those years ago, or maybe what that teenager felt looking in, or that young man tried to build. I'm keeping it safe. Is she still there? Are they still outside? Did he make something worth holding to? Has something more complex grown within? Even "idk." As weird as it sounds, that's my euphoria.

It's hope.

Coming Out

I'm mostly doing this because I need the practice of coming out about this and what better way than screaming into the void of Tumblr?

So, it took damn near a decade after figuring out I'm definitely trans somehow, but I finally figured out how.

I'm bigender, specifically a woman and a man simultaneously, I don't flow between them at all, never have.

I'm still called R-ose, that's the name I chose a few years ago after figuring out I'm trans in the first place. The quick story behind my name is I specifically wanted my initials to spell something cool, and it ended up being R-OSE (hyphenated double first name because I love those). I wanted all my individual names to be gender neutral and meaningful on their own, but they'd spell something feminine. Also I sign things as r-o, because double first name, which still works out because when i sign things as "r-o's [thing]" it's still read out loud as "Rose" so yknow. I really like my name. You can just spell it as Rose, I 100% don't mind if other people don't put in the hyphen, I just put a lot of work into my name so why not use it yknow?

As for pronouns, I use what I just call she/him pronouns, so like alternating she/her and he/him pronouns. My biggest hope is when it comes to gendered terms (king/queen, ma'am/sir, girl/boy, etc etc etc) everyone will just use whatever term comes to mind first, but switch between the she/her and he/him pronouns as you go.

God I really hope my friends will accept that, it's the biggest thing holding me back from coming out to them anyway, because it would really hurt for them to be like "yeah that's cool but your pronouns are weird" like dude. bro. fella. I KNOW people aren't used to them but it would truly make me happier than I've been in so many years. I've never had a good relationship with gender and pronouns, I just want a tiny morsel of gender euphoria if you could be so kind

anyways if you want to read the whole gender explanation story, i put it under the keep reading thing. : ) <3 - R-ose

For the past few years I had completely given up on figuring it out. Genderfluid didn't feel right but it's just what I'd tell people IRL so they wouldn't catch onto the DID thing. And if I'm nonbinary, why do I not relate to nonbinary people at all? Will I ever figure out my gender or is it all so difficult because I'm 99% sure I'm autistic? How do I feel SO MANY gender feelings but after almost 10 years I had gotten no closer to figuring out what fits?

I completely gave up. I wouldn't talk about gender with new people. If my friends told them I'm nonbinary I wouldn't care. If gender was relative to the conversation, I'd just say I was trans and never elaborate under any circumstance.

But I figured it out a few months ago! I'm bigender. specifically, I always experience being a woman and a man simultaneously, I don't flow between them at all. So while I'm technically nonbinary, like, under the umbrella of nonbinary, that's not my gender label.

I have this joke within myself that I used to think I was outside the gender binary, but turns out I'm the whole damn thing!

I'm not really comfortable getting into any online spaces about being bigender because as far as i've seen, a lot of outdated understandings and terms are used that really hit me weird. i hope that people come to realize that bigender literally just means you experience exactly 2 genders somehow and you don't have to switch between them like a genderfluid person would. I certainly don't, never have. it's such a simple identity, but for some reason people still really don't like it.

So....what are some of your headcanons for Ranbutler?

OHHHHHHHHHH BUDDY, YOU ARE OPENING YOURSELF TO A WHOLE NEW CAN'O'BEANS HERE

OKAY SO FIRST OF ALL-

(everything else under the cut because there is a L O T )

Butler's human form is predominant(which unfortunately means he does not have a tail :(), but he can make Ender noises/speak Galactic. He's got a bunch of stims and tics, and making the Ender noises is one of them! He often makes them to fill the silence, or in times of high emotion(positive or negative. just imagine a Butler bouncing on his toes while excited Ender chirps keep coming out of his mouth, or he's rambling about something and half of it is layered with Galactic). Following from that, Butler has something that Billiam calls the "monochrome form". If he's under high levels of stress, whatever dark tint of color is in his right side will start spiking into the left side, making his skin darker(and, if he has enough color in his skin from NOT FUCKING OVERWORKING HIMSELF, it can get dark enough to blend into shadows) and spreading from the little black scales on his neck and cheeks and hands(which are already claws, that's why he wears gloves), and if he's really stressed/pissed, little horns are gonna start poking out of his skull and he's gonna be completely gray/black, his teeth are already deadly but they're gonna get sharper and if you look him in the eyes he will s c r e a m and very likely tear you apart if Billiam isn't there to hold him back/calm him down.

Speaking of! Butler very much dislikes eye contact. It makes them extremely uncomfortable and the Ender part is gonna start screaming to attack attack attack and the pupil-slit thing is gonna happen. Unfortunately, he's frozen by the eye contact and cannot move of his own free will, it's all going to be instinct to either get away or attack, if he moves at all. And the moment the eye contact is broken, he starts to calm down and all the screaming in his head starts to dissipate, so he doesn't really get the chance to consciously act on the Ender side's instinct.

NEXT OF ALL, throwing canon out the window and saying BILLIAM AND BUTLER ARE FOUND-FAMILY. The way they acted in the episode is just that, an act. In reality, they actually Care each other Very Very Much and have adopted each other into their respective hybrid groups(i.e Endermen have their hauntings, Piglins have their sounders{that part's not canon to mc but i yoinked it from a fic}). Hubert jokes about how Billiam accidentally adopted Bu as his son, but both Bu and Bi deny this. Hubert also got Liaria and James in on the joke and now these two are being constantly triple-teamed.

ON THAT NOTE Liaria and James know about the Egg. It happened at the tail end of Bu's first masquerade when they started accusing Billiam of committing all the murders, and Bu kind of panicked and outed himself as the killer, he pulled out the knife and everything. Billiam admitted that he knew about this, and showed them the Egg as explanation. Now Liaria and James willingly give up their bought lives to the Egg on the regular(we might get into the lives thing later{it was also something i yoinked from a fic, and then I gave it more explanation}) to keep Billiam and his family alive, but they're not all that affected by it due to not even being near it half the time.

AND ON THAT NOTE, let's talk about Butler's relationship with the Egg! Bad. It's bad. Absolutely terrible, the two despise each other immensely. I like to say they're the closest thing to caliginous that a teenaged hybrid that lived off spite and an ancient crimson demon can be. The Egg's hurt Bu a lot, and honestly that's part of the reason his contempt and fear for it is so high. But that's also part of the reason why Billiam was pulled out of its influence despite living right above it. Because he cares for Bu, a literal child that's suffered severe mental and physical trauma at the hands(well, vines) of the Egg. Honestly? Billiam wouldn't be the way he is now if he didn't have to take trips to the Nether. Short explanation, too much time away from their home realm gets hybrids really really sick. So, about a few months or so after Bu arrived, he had to yeet back there for a week and just told Butler and Hubert to take care of the mansion. And you know what Hubert did, that bitch? He took advantage of both Billiam's absence and Butler's skill and pampered himself while throwing the entire load onto the child. And then like halfway through the week, he got the idea to introduce said child to the Egg, who before then has had no idea it ever existed aside from the crimson red aura around the mansion(it's a whole thing about Endermen and magic but again, another thing I might get into later). He hadn't even attended a party before then. So, yeah, Hubert just left him down in one of the old cells for three days. Didn't even check on him, that bitch. And then when Billiam game back, suffice to say he was PISSED. He may be a rich bastard who causes murders biweekly, but even he has standards, and hurting a damn 7-8 year old child that bad was not one of them. he can't be held responsible for child labor, bu followed him home by his own choice. again, another whole backstory thing

Bu's genderfluid! He usually switches between he/him and they/them, and the direction he nods is a little indicator of which one(up for gender, down for no), but sometimes he uses she/her. Adding on that, due to Weird Enderman Genetics, he can manipulate his hair to grow real fast and likes to experiment with it in the mornings for Maximum Gender Euphoria This means that one day his hair could be barely touching his neck, and the next it's all the way down to his waist. It's a fun little anomaly and sometimes Billiam likes to play with it when it gets longer :3 travelling on the lgbt train, Bu is also ace/aro! This doesn't have much impact story-wise(usually), but it's just a fun little tidbit :3 On other, more Ender notes, he has pretty much all the traits an Enderman does, even if he looks fully human aside from being 6 inches taller than Sir Billiam himself. With the eye-contact thing, I've got a headcanon that Endermen can kind of read minds to an extent if they look into another entity's eyes, but it gets loud and borderline painful if anything but another Enderman does the same. Meanwhile, Bu's about the perfect mix of an Enderman and a Human(later called Players and Villagers depending on their capabilities) to be able to take at least a few seconds of eye contact. He can also teleport! To about the same extent as Endermen, if not a little less. Unfortunately, spending too much time in the void between teleportations(i.e a few hours for him, though an hour in the void is a minute in reality. It's why teleporting happens in the blink of an eye to anyone but the user) has some adverse effects. Bu's either glitched, gotten some sort of void-sickness like a flu but worse, and/or lost large chunks of memory each of the separate times he stuck himself in there for too long. Pure-blooded Endermen have a longer tolerance, but even they can succumb to the void with enough time.

Bu's also hurt by water, and the first time Billiam really figured this out is when he dragged him to the roof because it was raining and for some reason, Bi really likes the rain. Bu, on the other hand, was hospitalized for a day once Billiam actually realized, "oh, he's burning" Unfortunately, Bu can still produce tears, so he's got some scars on his cheeks and hands from those, Luckily, though! Billiam got him some gloves and a facemask reminiscent of cc!Ranboo to hide those scars because bu's. really self-conscious about them :,D

But also he's got TOE BEANS,

[ahem] So Endermen are basically giant block-holding teleporting cats and no one can convince me very much otherwise. So on the one hand, they have giant hands shaped for holding blocks. On the other hand, T O E B E A N S

So Bu's got beans on the pads of his fingers and feet(which also end in claws with a black gradient because Peak Character Design <3). Billiam likes to hold his hands on the rare occasion he doesn't wear his gloves because mans likes to stim with those toe beans. Meanwhile Billiam himself has nicely-textured hands because of his Piglin hooves and Bu also likes to stim with them, so just. them holding each others hands for mutual stimmage

[ahem] anyway

Bu stims!! He flaps his hands and does thing really rapidly and harshly when he's really high-strung, which doesn't happen often, at least in front of people. Boy's got anxiety so he's had his fair share of panic attacks :,D he just knows how to disguise them so people don't see, but Billiam knows the signs at this point. But he also has a lot of vocal stims/tics, mainly lots of Enderman noises, some popping and a little screechy thing here and there. Sometimes he picks up a sound and then repeats it a whole bunch because it feels nice on the tongue :] there's also these poofs of particles that happen when he's happy, they look like mini purple fireworks and they're like an expulsion of magic, he can feel when they happen and it feels nice :]

(cw for self-harm in this paragraph and the followed copy-pasted convo)

[ahemhemhem] So y'know how Butler's an Ender-hybrid? His hands and feet reflect that(along with the ears, the eyes, the height, the abilities, but we're talking about about the hands here). Part of why he keeps those gloves on almost 24/7 is to dull his claws, which are not so much an intentional danger to others rather than an unintentional danger to himself. He's got tics and stims and is very neurodivergent and has anxiety(me projecting? noooo /hj), so he gets very nervous very easily. And one of his nervous habits rather than wringing his hands, fidgeting, and (if really bad)a heightened amount of tics, he tends to scratch at his arms. His claws can tear through the fabric easily, and more than one or two suits have been sent back to the tailors for repairs to the sleeves. However, having both padded sleeves and padded gloves nullifies that, so he always wears them special-made. If he didn't have that habit, he likely wouldn't have the gloves on as often as he does.

Friend Hey good headcanons 👀👀👀👀👀👀👀 Also ohhhh my god Billiam fussing over him and his gloves until he gets them to be the right amount of padded where Bu can still do things but also not hurt himself

Me gbfhdgbhgsfhbgsfdhdf He keeps examining them every time the tailors try but it doesn't feel right until That Specific Try so he just plops the gloves back on the counter and says "Do it again"

Friend They spend an entire day doing nothing but making gloves while Billiam & Hubert take turns watching Butler to make sure he stays safe

Me Absolutely Problem is Butler can feel eyes on him. And eyes make him nervous :,) so when he gets nervous. he starts to scratch at his arms again and anxiety is too much for him to ask them to stop watching him

Friend It ends up with them just having to hold his hands, looking at random things (they can go sit on the balcony or something so they have something pretty to look at)

Me That hold on actually that's adorable-

Friend Fhhdjdjdjsjsj they're friends your honor

Me Absolutely Even Hubert contributes to keeping him safe. And Hubert's afraid of even being near Butler

Friend And then we get bonding via the oh no Billiam is busy and Hubert has to take care of Bu for the next 3 hours

Me GHDSFGSHFGS THAT IS A GREAT IDEA Butler insists he can do everything himself, nothing's different about the routine, and then he has a mental breakdown when he tries to make food without anyone else in the kitchen- Cause usually Hubert's there, even if he's making something else. There's at least another presence, and that's the sort of thing that's calming for Bu. But Hubert's off setting up the table for lunch/dinner or something and Butler makes One minor slip-up and spirals from there until he's struggling even handling spice mixing The same thing happened with cookies one time, and both times Hubert found him borderline unable to function because he panicked too much and helped him out of it.

Friend Butler is just curled up in the kitchen, trying to have a quiet panic attack because he can't cause the others any more trouble than he already is, and Hubert is very quietly upset about helping him because he was doing so good at avoiding Bu but here he is again being the only thing that's letting this kid breathe

Me Absolutely

Friend Do you think Bu passes out on him? Like Hubert (probably reluctantly) gives Butler a hug cause those help, and Bu was just supposed to stay there until he felt better, but panic attacks are exhausting and he fell asleep at some point-

Me Oh my gods he would though, especially with the amount of sleep he gets He'd have to try so hard to even stay conscious, much less do things in the manner he usually does, and Hubert just quietly tells him that it's okay to sleep; he'll take care of everything. Hu never forgets that of course Bu's always in danger around him - he has fleeting thoughts and quite often knows how to act on them - but he stands up holding an exhausted child and takes him to his room so he can rest. Butler may want him to stay; Endermen usually want someone around when sleeping. It's the security of having someone watch for nightmares, but Hubert doesn't stay. He has to go back to the kitchen and finish that meal Bu was making. But if he's still asleep by the time Hu's done with everything, he might linger outside his door, listening in for anything bad.

(Okay the cw is over now, you may now go back to your regularly scheduled content :,D)

Also, one last thing: Billiam gives Butler a bunch of gold things(including the masquerade mask) because that's what Piglins do with their sounders, they cover them in gold to show they care. And after Bu finding out the reason why Billiam's been handing off a bunch of gold things to him he does not cry, because that would hurt his face, but he does feel quite a lot of things that make him want to because holy shit Billiam feels the same

Butler is Billiam's sounder and Billiam is Butler's haunting, they are family your honor

I didn't know you could just be a boy

I was listening to a podcast today, about a girl who stood up to her parents at the tender age of four and told them that she was a girl and that she'd chosen a name. I'm in awe of this little girl being so damn sure of herself. I got super emotional listening to it and it got me thinking about my own childhood. It was NPR’s radio ambulante, the episode called “yo nena”.

I knew I was different from a young age but I didnt know how.

I just felt it. And probably cause I visited a lot of doctors and i guess most kids don't do that?

I learned that my brain was different but not the details. I had some vague notion of being adhd. I would not learn it until much later by googling different developmental disorders and learning about being neurodivergent and autistic.

I would later on go on to learn I was queer too, and though I had read the word genderqueer once and thought it fit, I hadn't given it much thought.

I was assigned female at birth, and though I have never liked it, I thought I was stuck with it, that I just had to make the best of it.

I remember wishing to be a boy so many times. Identifiying with male characters, creating ocs and alter-egos, acting the male parts (it was an all-girls school, someone had to), and begging mum to let me cut my hair short, and being so happy when people thought I was a boy.

I never liked traditionally female things, never had a barbie, hated dresses (there's still a photo of a tiny grumpy me being forced into a dress one of my grandmas gave me) and my school uniform was trousers 99% of the time. The other 1% was like official acts, maybe the first and last day of school, stuff like that. I hated it, but at an all-girls catholic school I had much biggers issues that complaining about wearing a skirt a few days out of the year. I remember the gym uniform being a problem. Not sure what the problem was. Something about tights maybe?

I never felt like a girl. But it wasn't something I could properly explain so when I tried to talk about it, with my parents or friends what they usually got out of it was the usual self-steem issues of any girl. Mum tried to help by helping me choose new clothes, telling me how good I looked. And trying to get me to be more feminine, teaching me about 'girly stuff',

But that wasn't it. I understand it better now .

See, it's not that I have self-steem issues about my appearance. I know I'm conventionally good

looking. And if I gave 1/10 of a fuck I can be a very hot girl. I have photos of pasts attempts to prove it. But it never felt right. It never felt like me.

I can put on a bikini and I'm young, thin, fit, I'll look good. But that doesn't mean I'll like what I see in the mirror. I don't feel uncomfortable because I think the person in the mirror looks bad but because I don't know who that is.

I feel exposed. Vulnerable. Bikinis are uncomfortable by design, meant to exploit feminine bodies and for someone who's already uncomfortable having one? A bloody nightmare.

And there's a lot of understand. Why the hell am I being punished for the crime of having a female body by being constantly uncomfortable ? Why are clothes so terrible? Why is so hard to find something basic and decent? Why are bras the worst?? On and on and on. questions I never got the answer to. So much confusion about girl stuff that every other girl i knew seemed capable of navigating.

For a long time I blamed it on me being weird (ie, neurodivergent)

Like, all my friends started caring about boys, parties, romance, alcohol and drugs.

I'd always struggle in school and one year I got literally left behind.

I struggled with depression. I tried hard to fit in and be like them. I tried to be normal, followed their strange rituals. I let my hair grow out, i went on dates with boys, I drank too much and made out with strangers. I got into trouble. I wore a dress to my graduation and invited a boy I'd been talking to.

It was one of the few times I wore a dress voluntarily. Another one was a christmas dinner. And a new year's party. I also wore a skirt to dress up as kate bishop. That's about all I recall. I did buy a dress to cosplay clara oswald but never did it.

I wonder, what if I had told my parents I was a boy and I wanted to be treated like one before? How would they have reacted ?

Laughed it off probably. As they did when I pretended to be a boy for a game as I often did.

I can't imagine them taking it seriously, even now.

I don't know when I found out trans people existed, or who was the first one I heard about.

But I do know I thought it meant you like hated your body or yourself and wanted to be totally different.

And that didnt fit me. I had never hated myself. I hated how the world treated me. I hated arbitrary rules based on gender.

My scout group was mixed-gender, but we were divided in troops and these were single-gender and divided by age.

But we all learned the same things. Whether it was building a fire, tracking, or cooking, we got the same lessons. Sometimes we competed and we slept/bathed separately.

In TECHO it was all mixed-gender. Well, except bathing, but often we'd shared the same bathroom. We slept, cooked, and worked together.

And nobody ever looked down on girls as 'the weaker sex'

That was cool.

My actual education was the opposite. Academically, it is better for a school to be all-girls, at least for girls. But socially, not so much.

As a teenager, I hadn't quite forgotten how much I wanted to be a boy as a kid, but idk I thought I had left it behind me. That what I craved was freedom, independence, the benefits of being a boy, not actually being one.

Later I would discover terms like 'internalized misogyny' and think that was the problem. Cause I liked Lucy and Arya, not Susan and Sansa.

Yet here I stand, years later. Having done a lot  of work. Recognising the value of Susan and Sansa. Appreciating Peggy Carter, in a gay and feminist way, and still not wanting to be a girl.

It just doesn't fit me. It's not a rejection.

I'm a feminist. I think women are great.

I understand there are many ways to be one.

That I don't have to be feminine to be one.

And yet, it just doesn't feel right.

After I learned of what 'gender dysphoria' was I though, 'oh I can't be trans I don't have that'

And then, I learned about 'gender euphoria'

And that finally opened my eyes

Trying to be a girl always felt like an ill-fitting costume, no matter how hard I tried. Like I was playing a part and didn't know my lines.

I remember cutting my hair short, like kstew, and going WOW upon seeing my reflection.. I looked more like myself than I had in ages.

I bought different clothes. Boy's clothes. I'm too small for men's clothes but I can fit just fine in clothes meant for 12 years old boys.

I cut my hair, put on new clothes, bought tight sport bras, and when I looked in the mirror, I wasn't sure who the person staring back was but I really liked how he looked.

My parents, for ages, tried to get me to 'dress nicer' to 'act like a lady' and so on. I cared enough to shower and put on clean clothes. I bought a lot of nerdy shirts which I at least liked. Did some experiments. Occasionally I'd make an effort but otherwise I was pretty basic. Loose-fitting jeans and hoodies.

Family kept gifting me nicer girly things I'd wear once and often ignored later.

It wasn't till I gave myself permission to truly dress how I wanted, and yes to shop in the boy's/men's section that I started to actually care about how I looked and putting more effort in.

I never thought I could be a boy, because I didn't know that was a thing you could do.

if I had been like that little girl and said 'i'm a boy' I think they'd havebeen at a total loss.

would they have asked my shrink? What would he have said?? It felt as though they were always on my case to be more lady-like but I know that's unfair. They were generally pretty okay with me being a tomboy, at least until puberty. And even then it was never that huge a thing. More of a constant annoying issue. There were many more pressing ones.

It's 2019, and I bet most parents would still be at a loss. There's not exactly a lot of rep or info.

I'm a lot happier with how I look now, but I still haven't found the right words to explain myself to my parents. I know I have to eventually, I want to stop hiding, to be visible, to change my name.

1. Do you use any other terms to define or explain your gender?

So…I got a little carried away. Most of these posts will not be this long, but I had a lot I wanted to say, and a long drizzly afternoon to work on saying it, so.

Aside from genderqueer, trans, and nonbinary…

I’ve started feeling more at home with the word transmasculine this year, after several years of circling it warily and ultimately running away because it would just be ALL TOO SHOCKING. Other people interpret transmasculine in a wide variety of ways, many of which make me deeply uncomfortable (eg “Transmasc = physically transitioning in all the same ways trans men usually do;” “Transmasc = trans man but woke about it;” “Transmasc = I have aligned myself against women and forsaken feminism and I love asserting my dominant gender role”), and voluntarily using a word that’s ripe for misinterpretation made my control-obsessed brain fuck right off.

But ultimately it’s not really about using words (what does that even mean? putting them in your tumblr bio? buying the pride flag?) so much as knowing, however privately, that you are a thing. And I’m transmasculine! It’s a word that feels comfortable, and homey, and exciting. Other people who use that word sound like me! They look like me, and they look how I want to look! I get such a blooming, leaping, light-filled feeling in my chest when I see these people, because I instinctively feel that these are People Like Me. I recognize myself in their experiences of gender, and sometimes I feel like my whole body’s going to shake apart with a euphoria that’s like being on fire. Every time I read something by Daniel M. Lavery I end up rolling around on the floor in paroxysms of delight and Feeling Seen, and my brain lights up like a fireworks display when I see awkward bi men with curly brown hair and glasses. There is still a little part of my brain that’s convinced referring to myself as transmasc will make everyone deeply disappointed in me, and obligate me to go out and befriend a footballer named Chad, but I’ve been casually referring to myself that way since May in semi-public venues and the sky hasn’t fallen in yet.

Transmasc feels like a useful word for me because it makes me feel more settled. I think a lot of times nonbinary gender is simplified to gender neutrality (which it is for some people!), while for me it’s more like a stewing mess full of things that don’t make coherent sense in anyone’s mind but my own. So I can like masculine words and gender presentations, and that doesn’t mean I’m equating neutrality with masculinity, and I can also express my gender in the numerous non-masc ways that feel natural to me while still having that anchor to come back to. Ultimately, I think it just means that I have a more meaningful relationship with masculinity than I have with femininity, neutrality, or androgyny, and that I’m deliberately moving in a more masc-coded direction that the one I started out. And that’s it!

--

The other big gender-conceptualization-thing that I’ve been thinking a lot about is the complicated muddle of doubleness and inversion that I feel between gender identity, gender presentation, sexuality, and gender expression. I don’t feel bigender, because that sounds like I have two discrete gender experiences sitting side by side, and I’m not genderfluid, because it’s not like my gender actually changes, but I do feel like I’m part woman-affiliated agender person, and part genderqueer guy with the genderqueer dialed up to eleven and the guy dialed down to two. Part of me feels apart from gender, but nebulously attached to queer ideas of womanhood (lesbian! spinster! middle school girl at a sleepover who promises to love her friends more than any passing crush!), and then part of me feels apart from gender, but like I picked Guy Gender to steal for myself and imitate and relentlessly queer by virtue of not taking it seriously enough. But it’s all mixed together, you know? Like paint swirling on a palette, or light bringing out iridescence on fish scales. Sometimes it will be more like one thing, sometimes more like another, but it’s always whole and completely intertwined.

Earlier this year a Miriam Zoila Perez quote about being a faggy butch was going around, and man, that gave me a lot of gender feelings. I first encountered the term fairy butch on this old blog called The Butchelor, and while I loved it then, I didn’t use it because of a radfem-induced trepidation that it was all an elaborate joke everyone understood but me. I also have an extremely annoyed relationship to the word butch, because I’m not butch at all, and I doubt anyone else would think I am, but this seems to be the only word anyone is capable of using to describe queer masculinity. It’s like other people are determined to smash you into yet another binary (ironically, a binary that’s jealously guarded by the same people who keep enfolding you in it) because you’re afab and like wearing ties. It’s annoying!

But the phrase fairy butch just seems so delightful to me, because it’s whimsical and complex, and also so genderfucky. I’m not masculine in any of the ways that usually cohere to the word butch—I don’t have the interests, or the mannerisms, or the sexual propensities or the haircut or the total dislike for anything feminine-coded (why is masculinity always all or nothing, and all about absence?). I love my socks with the sparkly pink foxgloves, I love smiling (why must men never smile?), I like sitting with my legs crossed and talking with my hands. I’m not feminine, I’m effeminate. I’m a double invert, gay for women and gay for men, a too-boyish-“woman” who doubles right back around as a too-feminine-“man.” Maybe I’m not a butch, or even a (faggy) butch, but dammit I’m a fairy/butch. Two queers in one, two inextricable, contradicting queernesses that complicate and complement and mitigate and enhance each other.

--

The idea that I’ve been slowly winding towards is that contradiction is part of my gender. It’s not something that’s going to get smoothed out one day when I find The Perfect Word, and the questioning and revisiting isn’t going to end when I reach The Final Stage of Transition or whatever. I read an article a few weeks ago that nebulously cited Jack Halberstam as saying “refusal to resolve my gender ambiguity has become a kind of identity for me,” and that’s something that resonates with me so, so much. I don’t have to make myself neat and appropriate for consumption, because my gender doesn’t exist at the mercy of other people’s understanding. I’m not a problem that has yet to be shoved into a “woman-aligned” or “nonvir” box, I just am. Sitting amidst the dissonance of things that other people tell me are impossible to feel at the same time is my identity. I never want to cohere.

It reminds me of the way I feel about historical figures like Katharine Hepburn and Daphne DuMaurier, who were definitely genderqueer as fuck, but also closeted to the outside world for their entire lives, and unclassifiable in modern terminology. They were real, complex people who existed, and are now gone! It would be really weird to assign them a coherent identity, like “Hepburn was a nonbinary trans man” or “DuMaurier was genderfluid” or what-have-you, when all you have are decontextualized fragments of their gender feelings. (I feel comfortable calling them genderqueer because that can be used as an adjective to describe cis people who queer gender, which they definitely did)

Anyway: I feel very deeply connected to these people, and the way they saw themselves as being boys, or like-men, or men-in-certain-contexts, or men-and-women, or women-who-wanted-to-be-men. But the thing is, wherever they may have wanted to go, they never arrived. Would Hepburn have preferred to be known professionally as Jimmy, gone by he/him pronouns in all areas of life, and identified as a proud trans man? Barring some spectacular archival discovery, we’ll never know, because that was never a viable option in Hepburn’s lifetime. And that space of possibly-wanting, but not-arriving, feels like a destination to me. That gap, between wanting and actualization, or fantasizing and pursuing, or playing around and Identifying As, feels like it is part of my experience of gender. I’m not a man, I’m a woman-who-wants-to-be-a-man. There has to be that distance, and that wanting.

I’ve gone on for an absurd amount of time here, but ultimately: I’m queer! My gender is queer! Some people are men, some people are women, and I’m a queer.

ENHORABUENA POR TU NO-1K SEGUIDORES! 1.1K es mucho más carismático que 1K de todos modos 🤣 And now in English for greater audiences: if this is a sleepover people will eventually change into their pyjamas, and changing clothes is usually a cue to talk about *drumroll* BODY HAIR! Thoughts? Removing it or not, how to do it, why to do it, how is it related or not to your gender identity...

Thoughts: kekqdnnw I LOVE THIS QUESTION! I have a historyTM with body hair and I am passionate and mad and opinionated about it. Long story short, I don't remove it anymore, save for the stray prickly hairs that pop up in weird places of my eyebrows and upper lip.

Why to do it: because you choose to. If you like how it feels, or how it looks, or your skin is too sensitive if you don't remove it, or if you feel good doing it, or even if you're not ready to consider stopping doing it yet, then no one should ever tell you that you can't, or shouldn't, or make you feel guilty about it. The right to decide over your body goes both ways. In fact, it goes every single way.

How to do it: find the method that works best for you! Some people have fine hair and have no trouble shaving, but for some others like me shaved body hair is like having needles growing out of your body. Some people can't use creams because of skin conditions, but for others it may be the quickest, most painless way! Plucking it out sucks because of ingrown hairs, but it lasts longer, so that may be your jam. Just listen to your body and do what feels best for you 😊

And because I like to overshare, here's a little insight into my journey...

I have PCOS and am dark-haired, so I have a LOT of body hair. From age 12 onwards I was bullied, shamed, and told by my family that I had to remove my body hair in order to have other people respect me. One time, I was even physically forced to go to a hairdresser and wax my face after I repeatedly said no, just because "young ladies don't look like that".

I have waxed, shaved, plucked, used creams (that gave me allergic reactions), and tried laser removal. But I mostly shaved, which is why I spent the entirety of my teenage years with my legs covered in hair so prickly it felt like needles — so prickly it physically hurt to walk because the joints between my thighs and butt would grow those hairs every two days and it would sink into my skin with every step. So prickly I couldn't sit with my legs pressed together in summer without wanting to scream.

When I was 17, I started to remove my body hair with laser solely because my parents had planned that for me. They had decided a few years prior that I would shave to make my hair thicker so that the laser would remove all of it forever more quickly and easily. I remember crying out, sobbing from pain, and having the ladies that were doing it laugh at me because "this is something every woman goes through". I remember walking out of those sessions feeling sick, telling my parents that I didn't want that for my body, and feeling like nobody cared, like they thought they knew best.

At 18, after I'd gone through a few laser sessions, I happened to win a poetry contest. They gave me money to spend in this one mall, and because I was DONE, I got myself an epilator and I plucked out the hair of the entirety of my legs (OUCH) several times over the course of 6 months until I could finally let them grow without it feeling like a physical torture.

Then I stored the epilator away, threw out every razor I owned, and never removed my body hair again. Literally.

This was... 3 and a half years ago now, and it was around that time that I figured out I was nonbinary, too. Funnily enough, the two things have absolutely nothing to do with one another for me. I never once thought, "I shouldn't have to do this because I'm not a woman." I thought, "no woman and no person should be forced to do this against their will, and that includes me, as a person society views as a woman. No one should have this right over MY body." For me, having body hair is a human thing, not a gender-dependant thing. So having body hair doesn't give me gender euphoria, the same way as I don't relate the feeling of dysphoria to it not being there. It's a matter of me, my bodily boundaries, and the unearthly amounts of spite I feel against the people who thought they got to make that decision for me. Does that make sense? I hope it answers your last question!

Anyway. Since I stopped removing my body hair, I've learnt a few things. First of all, that the only people who care if you have body hair are high-schoolers and parents. Seriously. No one in university cares at all. No strangers at the beach or in the streets. Only my parents gave a damn — before they came to terms with it, they did beautiful things (/s) such as call me a sheep, "accuse" me of being a closeted trans man, and hide me from their friends when they visited. (It's important to note that my parents have been divorced since I was 11 and don't speak to one another, yet they still managed to act the same about this). Secondly, I've found that the breeze brushing your leg hair when you leave the house in summer feels reeeeally nice. Thirdly, that sweating doesn't itch as much for me, aaand lastly, that when you shoot the shower spray at your leg from different angles you can draw patterns on your leg!

(Also, I completely agree with the beginning of the ask 😎)

Hi I'm struggling rn with a "I don't think I know my gender anymore" crisis. How do I know if I'm trans? How did you know you were trans? Sorry if this is weird

this isn’t weird at all!! actually, feel free to dm me!!

uhhhh hmmb. I found out I was trans after identifying as a very staunchly not trans genderqueer lesbian. I went by they/them. and like, so one day I was talking to this kid who was like 10 or something and I was having a “boy day” (I certainly had a lot of those) and we were just chatting, I remember specifically talking and acting “like a boy” when we were talking, and then we went to the bathroom and I walked past the men’s room towards the women’s room and he asked me why and he said “aren’t you a boy” and it was like. Oohhhh SHAT! I am! so I said I WAS! and then I came out to my therapist as trans the next day and I came out to my mom after the appointment and it went like

me: mom, i’m a boymom: not right now

and then we went to burger king. and I just kept sort of pushing it till she was like FINE I guess I has TWO SONS. god damn it. 

but I guess I knew because it just felt better, like exhilaratingly better, to be and be seen as a boy. I do have dysphoria, but I didn’t develop/recognize it until a short while into my transition, and I knew I was trans because I tried out some labels (first: NonGirl, second: Occiasional All of Them, and third: BoyMan) and just, the joy and excitement and amazingness it felt to be called “he” and wear what I deemed my “boy clothes” and just, like, think of MYSELF as a boy really connected me to my own body in a way I hadn’t before. I thought of my body as MY body, as part of me, and it made me feel like I was speaking some profound truth, like moses on top of mount sinai being told the ten commandments. I felt similarly about my name, as I went through NINE names until I found this one, which I believe is the name that was written in the Book of Life when I was born and every year after, like this is the name G-d gave me. 

at this point, my gender identity has evolved, and I currently identify as genderqueer and use zhe/hir pronouns. however, i’m still a man, and I use he/him pronouns with family and in professional situations, such as work or school. the label genderqueer and my pronouns are more about my presentation and how I personally experience gender. the pronouns he/him and the label man are still and always will be a truth, but the label genderqueer and the pronouns zhe/hir describe less in terms of fact and Gender and more in terms of my soul and who I am and how I EXPRESS my gender, how ive molded it and shaped it to be my own interpretation and tool for my existance in life.

the majority of people who question their gender, cis-ness, and/or consider possible trans-ness are in fact trans, but some are not! and some were, but later were not. there is no pain or damage in delving into what makes you feel joy and what you feel describes yourself in the eyes of yourself (or in my case, my eyes and G-d’s eyes). I would say the best way to discover what fits is to try everything on. what are you leaning towards? considering? what makes you feel gender euphoria?

tl;dr: in order to divine your gender, you have to divine what brings you joy. you have to find a home for yourself, because you are not separate from your body or your mind, and every aspect of you is intertwined with both.

New Mama Pinkie

((In which I go for written word in lieu of mother-child bonding pics because I only just remembered at the last minute that I wanted Pinkie focus for this Mother’s Day. And I’m a day late. XP

Kind of a sequel to this post. 

Anyway...))

Pinkie’s eyes fluttered open, her vision full of blurry whites and grays and even mint greens as her numb head tried to make sense of what happened. She drew in deep breaths, turning her head to catch those indistinct blobs of dull colors. She blinked more and more, her vision becoming more clear with each blink, as well as the memories from before she had passed out returning. 

She soon could see that she was in a hospital room, with simple adornments and a open curtain to show an empty bed next to her. Upon realizing what she was doing here, her abdomen grew sore, but strangely not her mood. 

I was having a baby! she remembered with glee, though her body remained sluggish. No, wait, two babies! She giggled at the thought. Despite all the agony that giving birth put her through, there was a euphoria to knowing that she was a mom to two beautiful little foals. Granted, she only knew what one looked like, what gender it was--a colt--and the fact that they named him after her husband Cheese’s grandfather, Pizza Pockets. 

All she knew about the second was that it was a surprise. 

She frowned and looked at her belly, which still looked to have some pudge even after the foals were out. Rubbing it tenderly, all she could remember of round two of giving birth was that it was more painful than the first, there was an unnerving amount of blood, and that she was feeling so sick and sweaty she felt like her heart was going to explode. Everything went blurry, and she couldn’t understand what Cheese had been saying before she passed out. 

The memory felt like a weird dream. Granted, she was here, she was sore, and she was a little miffed that she didn’t know who little Pizza’s twin was.

Fortunately, Nurse Redheart opened the door, apparently talking with Cheese as they went in. It kind of sounded like scolding.

“So now that we’ve flushed all that caffeine out of your system, and made you sleep, I think you’re safe to see--oh!” Redheart stopped in her tracks at the sight of Pinkie beaming and waving at them. She looked at the gaping Cheese, a stallion who was bearing bags under his eyes and brown scruff on his muzzle, watching his smile getting wider by the minute. She was powerless to stop his leap to her bedside.

He did seem to be a bit aware of Pinkie’s soreness, and just hugged her gently while planting kisses on her cheeks, before finishing with a lingering smooch on her lips. His facial hair tickled, and Pinkie couldn’t help but giggle. 

They broke apart, and Cheese stroked her mane. “I’m so happy you’re okay, Pinkie!” He laughed and their foreheads touched. “I was so scared when they had to put you in intensive care!”

“I’m happy to be awake!” Pinkie replied. She pouted curiously. “What happened?”

Nurse Redheart drew closer to the bed. “The strain of foaling twins caused some tears in the uterus, leading to a hemorrhage that put you in shock. Doctor Stable and some other doctors had to act quickly to fix it... and make sure your panicking husband didn’t inadvertently interfere.”

“You kicked me out of the room,” Cheese deadpanned.

Redheart shot him a sharp look. “Yes.” She looked back at Pinkie. “Being premature, the foals had to be sent to the NICU. The good news is that they’re responding well to treatment. I was honestly more worried about your husband than I was about them.”

Cheese put a hoof on his heart, taken aback by that statement. “What?” He then waved the hoof and scoffed. “No, I’m just fine, you didn’t have to put me under care, so no need to worry about me just because I stayed up for a few days and guzzled several gallons of coffee just to keep awake and not miss any news.”

Pinkie gave him a funny look. “Don’t you hate coffee?”

Cheese bore a smile that looked physically painful and twitched. “It’s disgusting, I threw up several times--from the taste or having too much or maybe just worrying about my wife and kids, I don’t know. I also twitched. A lot. Made me dizzy and my headache worse and I worried that somepony stole my memories again and I cried.” He noticed Redheart’s raised eyebrow and looked away, flushing from embarrassment. 

“Oh, no wonder you’re so scruffy right now,” Pinkie said.

Cheese felt his chin. “I gotta shave later.”

“I feel sorry for that brother of yours, trying and failing to keep you from hurting yourself,” the nurse murmured. She turned back to Pinkie. “Anyway... I’ll get the doctor. He’ll run some tests on you to make sure your recovery is going smoothly, and we’ll administer medication to ease your pain.”

The nurse turned to leave when Pinkie shouted, “Wait!” 

Pinkie realized that shouting was a bad idea, as a sharp pain shot through her abdomen. She forgot that she wasn’t completely healed yet. Still, with a hoof rubbing her belly in some vain attempt to soothe it, she she looked at Redheart and asked, “Can I see my babies? I want to see my babies! Oh, I just wanna cradle their little heads and talk to them and tickle their chins...”

Redheart pursed her lips. “Well... we should determine if it’s safe for you to be there.”

Pinkie could feel her heart wavering, fearing that it was going to be crushed. “Oh, I’m sure I’m good enough to see them! I’m their mommy! They shouldn’t be missing out on their mommy! Do they even know they have a mommy?” Talking a lot was sure not doing wonders for that hurt womb, growing sorer as she rambled. “I mean, I don’t even know what one of them looks like, or even if its a filly or colt! I feel really bad for not knowing!”

Noticing her clutching her belly, Cheese pulled closer and petted her mane. “Pinkie, Pinkie... slow down. Panicking and possibly hurting yourself again is not going to help your case with the doctor.” He stroked her cheek and smiled. “Hey, I know you’re a fast healer, and the doc will see that. But, if not... no matter how long it takes for you to see the twins, it doesn’t change the fact that you are their mother, and they’re going to love you and forgive your for missing their first few days. You’re too lovable, you know.”

Pinkie giggled. “Aw, Cheesy...”

Redheart cleared her throat to get their attention. “Now, now, what I meant was that we should make sure they’re ready to be held, and that no infection occurred since your last tests. Their father has been able to sing lullabies to them from outside the window before he overdosed on the coffee.”

Cheese blushed again at the coffee mention. “Just get the doctor. The sooner the better.”

It was fortunate that Pinkie checked out, with the doctor gladly stating that there was no infection, and that if she rests and keeps stress to a minimum during the rest of her stay, she’ll be on the fast track to heal. It was also fortunate that the staff at the NICU had the news that the little twins were stable, and their parents could come in and interact a little more intimately.

Pinkie was wheeled to the room where the twins were held, awaiting with baited breath the moment she saw them. Meanwhile, Cheese was giving a few spoilers on who Pizza Pockets’ twin was--she was a filly, she was just as cute as her mom though currently not as huggable, she was tinier than her brother, and Cheese had trouble naming her for a while, running through the whole list that he and Pinkie came up with until he almost strangled his brother with it. The nurse had startled him when pressing for the filly’s name, and Cheese just blurted out the first name he saw from the list: Fudge Fondue. 

He was lucky that Fudge’s hair color made the name somewhat suitable. 

“Though, thinking on it...” Cheese said. “I probably should have named her ‘Something Surprise’--because, well, she was a surprise. Like ‘Fudge Surprise’, or ‘Strawberry Surprise’, or--”

“It’s okay, Cheese,” Pinkie said. “Fudge Fondue is a yummy name! The two words even start with the same letter, and that’s always fun! We could save Surprise for a later foal...”

Cheese pursed his lips. “I don’t know... after what happened at the birth, I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to have any more.”

Pinkie furrowed her brow. “Well, why not? I’d be all healed up by the time we’re ready to have another.”

Cheese sighed. “I know, but... the doctor said that we have a higher risk of it happening again, and I’m not sure if we can take that chance. We hit slim chances a lot, and this is something I definitely don’t want to happen again, especially since I don’t know if you’d survive the next time. You get me?”

Pinkie’s heart sank, exemplified by her mane deflating into a droop. As much as she hated to admit it, Cheese did have a point. “I see.”

Cheese stroked her mane. “I’m sorry. I know you wanted a big family.”

Pinkie just looked down at her belly. “Yeah. At least we have our twins.”

Soon enough, they were brought to the NICU, which had rows of incubators against the walls, several of them containing tiny sleeping foals that had wires and tubes attached to them. They were left to the nurses tending to the babies in there, two of whom looked up and recognized Cheese, who needed to assure them that he was okay now, and that his wife was ready to meet the twins. 

Forced to furiously scrub their forelegs clean, the new parents were brought to one particular pair of incubators. Pinkie waited in her wheelchair and Cheese siat on a nearby chair as the unicorn nurses gingerly lifted the two tiny foals from their incubators, and levitated them into their parents’ grasp.

Pinkie then realized that it was one thing to tell yourself you were a mother of twins, but then actually meeting the twins made her feel like her mind floated away like a balloon, and making her wonder all over again if it was a dream.

Cradling her son, Pinkie ran her eyes over every inch of Pizza Pockets’ little face, though ignoring the thin tube taped to his face and entering his nostril. In simple terms, Pizza looked mostly like his father, from his orangey color, to his muzzle shape, to the Sandwich forelock poking out from under his blue cap, and even some of the facial expressions he made. The most obvious things that weren’t Cheese were the mane, which was an reddish orange, and the eyes that opened to reveal teal instead of green. 

This felt so weird, but maybe she could introduce herself like she would any other pony. “Hiya, Pizza Pockets. I’m Pinkie Pie, but you can call me Mom. Or Mommy, or Mama, or Ma, or Madre, or... you know, whatever you want to call your... mother.”

That felt a little wrong, but that didn’t matter. Pinkie felt a lump in her throat, biting her lip as she smiled. Several circumstances kept her from bouncing around the room, so she just had to settle with the swelling of joy she felt in her heart. Which swelled bigger when Pizza decided that he liked his mom and smiled at her. 

Cheese looked over to them. “He’s got your smile.”

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee...” Pinkie didn’t have enough in her for a bigger squeal (probably for the best, considering the other babies in the room), but it was no matter, for it was plenty to convey how she felt to Cheese. “Oh, wow! I just called myself a mother! Did this baby really come out of me? Is this what was in me for almost a year? Did we really make him? I can’t believe we made a brand new pony!”

Cheese chuckled, and held up the foal he was holding. “Not just him, remember? We made this one too.”

Pinkie stared at Fudge Fondue, who did have Pinkie’s coat color and face, though with her father’s chocolate hair, and tired eyes that matched her brother’s. Again, she felt her heart nearly explode when the filly let out a squeaky yawn. 

Pinkie reached over with a free hoof and tickled her chin. “Did you come out of me, too? Ooh, you caught us by surprise, Fudgy! Pizza could have at least told us he had a sister.”

Fudge blinked, and gave her a little smile, complete with dimples. Pinkie grinned back, and looked up at Cheese. “She’s got your smile.”

“Heh, good to know. I kind of missed it when I was in panic mode.” Cheese lowered his forelegs to put Fudge back in cradle position, and then laid against the chair. “It’s weird to think that you and I made these little ponies. Even after a few days, it’s blowing my mind that we’re parents.”

“I know, right?” Pinkie took Pizza’s little hoof, which was just barely the size of a bit. “Suddenly it feels like the stork makes more sense than what actually happened. Cheese, am I still knocked out and just dreaming this?”

“Yes.” Cheese pulled a mock serious expression. “You also dreamed up the entire pregnancy, our wedding, every time you and your friends saved Equestria, and even my existence. Everything you know is wrong, get out of bed.”

Pinkie laughed, and it wasn’t long before she was shushed by nurses and she felt a weird, numb jolt in her belly trying to be pain. With a squeak and a groan, she looked up at a startled Cheese and said, “Um... don’t make me laugh too hard.”

Cheese grimaced. “Oh, sorry.”

Pinkie took a deep breath, and looked between the twins. “I can’t wait until they stop needing those tubes in their noses and under their diapers and become healthy, bouncy babies. I can’t wait until I get all better and am back to my bouncy self. And I can’t wait for all of us to get home and officially start our family life together.”

Cheese put his free hoof on her free hoof. “I can’t wait for all of that... and to see how our little bundles of joy grow up. Just hope I know how to dad.”

“I have... some idea how to mom. I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

They just sat there, staring at each other’s eyes and holding hooves. The worst of it was over, they were just now waiting for everyone’s full recovery. Each parent held a little foal, letting it sink in that these little ones were theirs and they had made them, even as the mother’s mind kept imploding at the fact that she pushed two little bodies out of her own body. Some doubt of this being their reality lingered in the back of their minds, but it was no matter, they were planning on keeping the babies, and raising them and loving them as much as equinely possible. 

Then, a question crossed Pinkie’s mind.

“Hey, you know our little guessing game that all of Ponyville got into?”

Cheese blinked. “Yeah?”

“So, did does that mean both Team Colt and Team Filly won, or just the guy who guessed twins?”

love yourself inspired au pt.2 ❧  euphoria ; na jaemin

/juːˈfɔːrɪə/

‘a feeling or state of intense excitement and happiness’

‘were you wandering around’

‘looking for an erased dream too?’

pairing: jaemin x gender neutral reader

word count: 2242

warnings: mild cursing

genre: fluff with angst at the end

other parts: serendipty ; lee jeno, singularity ; lee donghyuck, epiphany ; huang renjun (coming soon)

21 July 2017, summer

It was mid summer and the world was in full blossom and happiness. Just when you thought that the world was getting hectic when spring came, you weren't prepared for summer. Everywhere you looked you saw people eating ice cream or walking around in their shorts or skirts. Children ran across the streets spraying each other with their water guns while their parents ran after them yelling they shouldn't get each other that wet, because they knew what a mess their houses would be when the kids would come in all drowned in water. There wasn't a single cloud in the air and the sun was shining down upon everyone until late in the evening.

Summer also meant no school for a while. And you couldn't be happier with that because you could finally have time to meet up with friends and with your boyfriend. Talking about him, Jaemin truly loved summer, and since you now had a lot of time on your hands he brought you everywhere. Literally everywhere. It didn't matter what time of the day it was, if he got the idea he was gonna make it work. And since he knew you were bad at saying no to him, he took a huge advantage of that. He would wake you up at 6 in the morning to go on a roadtrip for the day. Other days he would take you to the beach and flex on his surfing skills while you cringed but still laughed at his extra ass trying to look cool. But when he caught you doing that when he was walking back he was sure to take his revenge and he would suddenly turn into flirtboy Jaemin and get you all flustered and blushy, while elders walked by, doing their evening walk, either gushing over you or complaining about children being gross.

It was a day in July when Jaemin suddenly stood in front of your door with his car keys shaking back and forth because of his hand. A awfully attractive smirk was plastered on his face and you knew exactly what he was here for. You sighed and ruffled your damp hair with a towel, since you just showered and had already put on your pyjamas since it was 11pm. 

“Babe, you could have called you know?” You laughed as you turned around and walked into the living room, knowing he was following you inside. Your hands were still busy drying your hair when you felt his arms wrap around your waist and his head being placed onto your shoulder.

“I know, but what is fun about calling? Besides that you would say no.”

“Then what makes you think I will say yes in person?” He turned you around and grabbed your cheeks into his hands and lightly squished them while smiling, more to himself than to you. After that he let his hands rest on your face and stared into your eyes, still smiling.

“Because I know it's harder for you to resist me in person.” You chuckled at his statement and nodded your head in sarcasm. 

“Yea sure, that's what you like to think babe. I’m very good at saying no to you.” His smile faded and he looked at you completely serious. “Then when was the last time you said no to me?" He asked with his arms crossed over his chest. Your lips pressed into a line when you knew you couldn't answer that because you almost never disagreed with him.

He laughed and grabbed your face again. “Told you. I won't blame you though. Nobody can resist me.” 

“Na Jaemin, stop being such a cocky ass.” You threw the towel at him and let me tell you that after he removed the towel and gave you a dead glare, before sprinting after you, that roadtrip thingy never happened and instead you both had the most childish sleepover ever. With lots of pillows being mistreated and things getting broken, after that lots of hugs and kisses but most importantly with lots of smiles and laughs being exchanged.

That was one of the most beautiful things about Jaemin. Not only did he have an angelic like and pretty smile, he also was able to cheer everybody up and he always brought a happy vibe with him. When you were with Jaemin it honestly was hard not to smile. If it was because of his corny jokes, his cheesy flirting or just his being in general. He just was a happy, smiley kid. An actual angel that you loved more than anything. And it was safe to say that he loved you just as much or even more.

The ways he showed his love to you wasn't only by taking you on random dates but also the little things he did in the relationships. That could vary from him making you tea and your favourite food when you were sick to him wiping away your tears when you didn't have your best day. He listened to everything you had to say and he listened with his whole. He asked you questions and was interested in what you liked, what made you happy and what you disliked. Everything was saved into his memory and there even were days where he brought you something you liked that you told about some time ago. You had already forgotten you told him that, but he didn't. Jaemin never did. Everything you said was important to him and even though he sometimes may be an annoying fuck who loved to tease you, you were the most important person in his life.

Concentrated you watched the sand fall through your fingers back onto the place you had just grabbed it from. There was a light breeze, very refreshing for such a hot day like this. Parents were watching their kids carefully while they played in the sea. Some couples walked around sharing an ice cream and some boys and girls were fighting against the waves with their surfboards. It made you think about the boy you were waiting for and you lightly smiled seeing his cocky face right for you, while he was trying to impress with his surfing skills. And just as he was able to read your mind he plopped right next to you and gave you his blinding smile. 

“Thinking about me?” He raised his right eye brow up and down and you let out a laugh while punching his shoulder. “You are full of yourself Jae, maybe I was thinking about someone else.” His frame froze and he looked at you with big eyes, you let out another laugh, this time harder because of his stupidity of believing that.

“I’m just kidding dumbass.” 

“You better be.” He frowned at you. Quickly you leaned forward and gave him a quick peck. “You know I only like you.” You moved back and laid down on the towel you had brought with you. 

“So what was so important that I had to get here immediately and then wait for you for more than 15 minutes?” With your eyes closed, blocking out the bright sunlight, you waited for an answer. But when it didn't come after waiting for a while you slowly opened on eye, only to see the necklace you have been wanting for more than half a year now, but it being sold out every time you had time to go and buy it. You had searched for the thing everywhere, in multiple cities, online, at different stores. But it wasn't there anymore. So when you saw it dangling above your head in Jaemin's hand, you couldn't help but feel a rush of happiness and confusion wash over you. Immediately you shut up, maybe a bit too fast which caused your head to hurt a bit but really you didn't care. With the biggest smile ever and doe-eyes you looked at Jaemin, back to the necklace and then back to Jaemin. 

“What,,, how? I thought they were sold out.”

“I have my tricks.” He smiled at you and at that moment you could literally burst of happiness, because not only were you spending your day with the boy you loved the most, he also managed to get you something you had been searching for forever and he remembered it. “Do you like it?” You looked at Jaemin who seemed to look a tad nervous because you were being so quiet all of the sudden. As response you didn't think twice and tackled him into a bear hug, which made the two of you roll down the sand. You knew some people were watching but you didn't care. With Jaemin, you never really cared. He made the world around you seem like one big blur and it only was the two of you, surrounded by happiness.

Summer passed by rather fast. Because you know what they say, when you're having fun time seems to go in a faster pace. Before you knew it you only had one week left and school was almost starting again. Which meant no more random road trips, an end to all the beach adventures and way less time with Jaemin. He was going to another college as you and the both of you would be busy studying. However you promised to at least meet once a week, no matter how busy and stressful it would get. 

It was the last day the both of you had together and it was coming to an end as you sat on the rooftop of a random building with some blankets, pillows and food. Your head was on his lap as a soft blanket was wrapped around you. It was late but since the summer weather was still in the air it wasn't nesiscarrily  cold, just a little bit chilly. Jaemin was playing with your hair and while he was doing so he hummed along to an unfamilair song. The dark blue almost black sky was filled with little stars and a half moon. The city lights were on in all different colours and even though it was late it still seemed like there was life there. You were thinking about how much you were gonna miss this, being in his arms, feeling his warmth, smelling his cologne and hearing him laugh. You were gonna miss the feeling of his fingers picking up strings of your hair and then letting them slide down again, the feeling of his arms around you and the feeling of knowing he was there.

You knew you were overreacting. It was just college that was coming between the both of you. But still it felt weird that night. Almost like you had to enjoy the moment and cherish it extra bad. Like it was a last goodbye, while you damn well knew Jaemin wasn't going anywhere after tonight. He would still be your boyfriend but there would be just a bit less time for you both. That was all right? You hoped so. But still you had this uneasy feeling . 

“I’m gonna miss this.” Jaemin's voice broke you out of your thoughts. You rolled onto your back and studied his face from down there. “Me too.” He stared at the city lights as you slowly traced your finger across his jawline and chin. Suddenly the boy let out a giggle and his eyes met yours as he removed your finger from his face.

“That tickles.” 

“Baby.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“The opinions differ from that.” He pouted his lips and pinched your nose. “You're annoying.” 

“Again I have a different opinion about that.” You smiled at his face before sitting up and pressing your lips against his cheek. With a relieved sigh you placed your head on his shoulder and he wrapped his arm around your waist.

“Promise me we will stay like this, no matter what happens or what will come on our paths.” You looked at the stars and waited for him to respond. Hoping that after he promised it, the uneasy feeling would go away. The arm around your waist tightened and his lips found yours before his eyes did.

“I promise.”

22 december 2018, winter

that night. that night i knew it, i already had this feeling, that it wouldn't go the way we planned it to go. however you promised. you promised me you would, then why didn't you? is it my fault? did i do something wrong? i have been taking everything you say to me. i just let it slide, even though it hurts, i let it slide. because even after every harsh word you say, after every day you get further away from me, i still love you. and i don't know if i’m in love with the you from my memories of the you that’s standing in front of me. but i still do. however i’m not sure if my love will be enough to let me stay. i’m hurt, babe. i don't know who i am anymore. i tried to change, for you. because that's what you wanted. but now i did you only complain more. are you still in love with me? i need to know it soon because i can't do this anymore. i’m sorry. 

- y/n

‘even if the sandy ocean floor splits into two, even if someone shakes up this world. never let go of my hand.’

‘please don’t wake up from this dream’

To buy less clothes: 

Don't get clothes in colours you don't like and/or do not go with other stuff in your wardrobe: this is by far the thing that has helped me the most. There might be something that is exactly what I was looking for, but if I cave in and get it in a colour I don't like, I don't end up wearing it as often. Also, if you get something, it is always best to get things that go well with the things already in your wardrobe, so you can get the maximum amount of outfits from the same piece of clothing. This doesn't mean you get all boring colours, it kind of happens naturally: if you get green pants, then you can get purple shirts, if you get purple pants, orange goes well with it etc etc. If you have brown, you can get yellow, beige, greens etc. but there will always be some colours that you will have to give up: and honestly, it's not as bad as that sounds: because it won't look good if you wear it with the clothes you already have, so you won't wear it as much as you think you would. I said bye bye to blues. 

Don't get halfway clothes: This has mostly been a gender thing for me, but I think it might apply in other situations as well. What I mean by halfway are clothes you don't really like but are similar enough to the one that you want to wear, but are not sure people will have a good reaction to. I used to buy kurtas that were really plain and had a particular cut because I wanted to wear something less feminine but at the same time I was not confident enough to just wear a shirt and trousers. And I got some parallel pants and whatnot. Honestly, these clothes have value, because I might be in many situations where I would need to go stealth in re gender, so it is not like I am going to never ever buy it again, but I don't think it should be a part of my style. You don't feel good, and in my experience, people find things to notice something off about you anyway. You might as well experience some euphoria occasionally.

 Don't get boring clothes: More like, don't get clothes that bore you. I think this is more about not following some advice I found when I was looking for tips to how to get less clothes/develop your style etc. They keep telling you to get 'basics' which is not bad advice necessarily but: I don't know if necessarily everyone will be happy with wearing a beige colour palette or an array of nude tones. I actually do like it when I see it on other people, don't get me wrong, I just don't think that's everybody's style. But it's really okay to have clothes that you like. You just have to build all of your other clothes around it too, which, like I said, just sort of happens when you think of the clothes you already own before getting new ones.

 Don't (always) listen to get clothes 'according to your body type': Ok this is again something that has gender stuff related to it as far as my experience is concerned, but I think it has some relevance in other situations as well. I started feeling weird about it when I realized there was much less about the 'shape' of the body when it came to posts I found giving cis-men tips for clothes. I also notices that a lot of the time, it was about hiding parts of your body and making your body look a certain way from the outside. Again, I appreciate the value in that: there are things I don't want to emphasize as well. But ultimately, I think the fashion aspect of it is also important lol. I will give you an example: I went way into the body type tips and finally found what pair of jeans I should wear. I even went to a shop that gave you sort of a consult and matched you with a pair, and yeah I looked good in those jeans. My friend went with me and they gave her another kind and her legs looked really long and skinny. But that was it, really: it was about fitting into a predetermined look. And there is no guarantee that that's what you want to look like. After that I got these baggy, tapered jeans that I just liked the look of from a thrift shop and I wear them more than anything else in my wardrobe. I don't think it emphasizes anything about my body: it just looks cool. And I think that's ok, and for me more valuable than emphasizing or de-emphasizing something about my body. I wear the perfect-for-me jeans on special occasions and I wear the baggy jeans almost every two days. Again, I understand not wanting to wear clothes that make your body look a certain way, it could also align with your personal aesthetic. It is just that it doesn't have to be a hard and fast rule. And when I ventured out of these criteria, I have found things that look good on me style wise, even if they don't pass the criteria of 'make my body look a certain way'.

 Don't get boring clothes 2: ok this might be really specific to my experience so apologies if what I am trying to say doesn't come across properly. but back when I was looking for it, a lot of the advice that I came across for 'passing' as more masculine or whatever was to dress like a boring straight man. Don't get me wrong, I understand the appeal. But again, I liked floral shirts and shirts that looked a little fancy and button down shirts that were lace etc etc. I would say it is worth it to see if the things you like looks good on you. One thing I have learnt is that I have no idea how people clock what gender I am, I could have spent ages putting together a 'man outfit' and still get misgendered, whereas sometimes I would just be out wearing something without making a conscious attempt to 'pass' and people would assume I am a  particular gender for whatever reason. You might as well wear what you like. The reason I have put this in how to get less clothes is that I realized I was always buying two kinds of styles: one for 'passing' and one for fashion reasons lol and honestly, the success in not getting misgendered, when you average things out, is pretty much the same. So just get the clothes you like. I ended up having some boring clothes anyway through hand me downs or things I got for a particular occasions (weddings and conferences, basically haha). By and by, you will notice what are the items of clothing that elicits a particular response, and you can use that to collect clothes on the basis of how well it makes you pass as a certain gender. However, and again, this is just my personal experience, but it was so much better for me when I tried to look at clothes on the basis of something more than that.

Spring And My Own Goddess Of Spring And Winter Flowers

It was the best day in my life. I had rented a nice black car and I was driving east, fast and easy, on secondary roads through the rolling plains and plateaus of Champagne and Lorraine. It was 3 May 2017. The sky was blue with scattered white cumuli that were appearing much bigger, higher and greyer at the horizon. Something huge was forming there. I was on my way to see Fishbach’s concert in the Saint-Donat church in Arlon, Belgium, as part of the Aralunaires festival. I was high, very high, higher than I had ever been before. Of course I was smoking weed from noon to dawn. But it was only peripheral adjustment and support. The engine of the highness was endogenous, in my brain. With the precocious arrival of spring I had kicked out depression and been climbing unquestioningly through hypomania: I was not working, I had sufficiently money left; I was in perfect conditions for experimenting and enjoying unconditional happiness, euphoria, excitation and hedonism — the shiny side of bipolar disorder, the golden trick, the lovely upgoing slope to nowhere but inner paradise — whatever may happen subsequently. It was 3 May 2017. I was on my way to see my music idol producing herself with her band in a church (a church!). I would pass through a terrible storm at the border between France and Belgium, arrive little time before the show, sit at the first row in the church, receive an incredible emotional hit and see a tunnel opening in the light and stroboscope landscape like a pathway to another universe; have a short chat with Fishbach after the concert (she would comment the design of my notebook and leave a nice note in it), drink a pint of beer and a big cup of coffee in a bar of the deserted city centre, circle ecstatically in my car in the urban ring roads feeling weird gravity shifts, finally take the way back home, after midnight; once in France, ∼30 km south to the border, I would meet the customs officers, a joint of weed lying, red and hot, in the ashtray close to my small reserve box, and bore them with an unstoppable and improvised speech — I am a writer, I just come back from a concert of Fishbach, do you know Fishbach? No? You should listen, it’s great, she inspires me a lot, look these are the nice merchandising they gave at the show, OK, OK, this side of the car, really you have never heard about her?… — until they let me go; I would shout my joy at the stars in the sky, get lost through the complicated net of roads before home, arrive after the sun had risen, barely sleep before preparing myself for the next show, at night, at La Cigale in Paris — Fishbach again, of course, why questioning? Two concerts in two days, I was just a groupie. It was 3 May 2017. It was the best day in my life. I was precisely on the edge between reason and insanity, hypomania and mania, at the cerebral orgasmic point before snaky mental maze. Under my umbrella, smoking, my back pressed against the outside walls of the Saint-Donat church, on the top of the hill of Arlon, amazed and overwhelmed, I was listening to Fishbach vocalizing before the concert and there was nothing else to live.

Was I then in love with Flora Fischbach and was my tracking of her a psycho behaviour? My friends were concerned with this issue and would let me know. What I will write further will address the second part of the question. Now, about l.o.v.e.: of course I was in love with her. Everybody was in love with her. Well, let’s say, every person attracted sexually by women in her audience was in love with her. I mean, she was, she is too much: delivering brilliant and daring pop music, singing extraordinarily — love her or hate her, there is no middle point on this subject —, beautiful, sexy, even ambiguous in gender and age, naturally classy, and above all hypnotic, magnetic, psychetic; on scene, supported by great musicians, she was, she is fucking something. I fell at first listening and sight, as many, many others.

But my passion for Fishbach was of course well beyond and apart from lust. The discovery of her debut album À Ta Merci in the first days of February 2017 gave me an electroshock. As I alluded previously, I was exiting a long, deep, and chaotic depressive phase and she was just the perfect extra kick I could expect. It was like being a young teenager living his first musical crush once again. With the slight difference that my Fishbach’s crush was several orders of magnitude more intense than the musical crushes I had experimented when I was actually a young teenager, in the late 80’s. Fishbach’s music was just a glittering synthesis of most that I could have liked so far in music draped in the peculiar big sound of « French touch »: the mainstream pop music of Daniel Balavoine or Mylène Farmer, the synth-pop of Kraftwerk or Depeche Mode, the rock of Electrelane, the electro-rock of Ladytron, the lettered songs of Françoise Hardy or Françoiz Breut, …, with, from place to place, irresistible spans reminiscent of Tame Impala or Vangelis’ Blade Runner themes and atmospheres.

Soon, listening to Fishbach’s music became an almost full-time, delighting occupation; she was a drug and she was better with drug. Obviously and corolarilly, there was a noticeable feedback loop between her and my mood level: the more I listened to her music the more I felt hypomaniac and vice versa. Last but not least, there was the song called « Mortel » and its two strangely diverging versions (one on the 2015 Fishbach EP, one on the À Ta Merci album). I was totally stunned: listening to this song was like feeling an harmless though harrowing arrow passing through all the nodes of my entire existence. I swear I watched hundreds of time the YouTube Vevo Dscvr live version of the song. The emotion provoked was indescribable and undecipherable.

I booked a ticket for her upcoming concert in La Cigale, Paris, 4 May 2017. But it was too far… When I discovered that she was actually about to perform her very big touring date in the same place 14 March, I went crazily impatient; I managed to buy, the day before the event, a black market ticket on the Internet. 14 March 2017 was a spring sunny and cool Tuesday. In the morning, in order to lower my excitation, I went running 20 km. I arrived at La Cigale very early in order to be able to place myself in the first or second row in the audience. I was 15. It was my first concert ever. I smoke only one joint and drank only one beer. After the show I was not the same person anymore. Some ravishing wasp come from outer space had bitten me, injecting in my body and soul a sweet and fatal venom. Her name was Flora and, with my poor erudition, I remembered that Flora was the goddess of something in some ancient mythology; I checked on the Internet: indeed, Flore or Flora was, in roman divinity, the goddess of flowers and spring. It was too much, too poetic: the reflection of my own renewal in music and emerging star. And, from then on, everything started to lovely burst.

As I told to the customs officers in the night of 3 May, in these times, I was effectively and vainly trying to write a « novel ». I intended to describe the dying of the light-like loss — or, actually, the refusal of loss — of past euphoria existing in bipolar disorder treatment and stabilisation. Nevertheless, after seeing Fishbach live for the first time, this literature direction split up into various and poorly coherent drafts as I more and more focused my writing energy in composing letters to Fishbach. And, yeah, in the end, I went totally psycho with that. Everything started around 15 of 16 March (i.e., no more than two days after the show in La Cigale): I felt an uninhibited, overwhelming, irresistible, almost vital need of telling her in writing what I had felted during the concert and since the discovery of her music — and acknowledging her. Surprisingly, I had found an email address at her name in a public page in Internet; it was obviously obsolete but I considered this way better than sending a post mail to her family in Charlevilles-Mézières in the northeastern corner of France. She would probably never read the email I had written but, who cared? Just the fact of sending the stuff was delivering me from a weight — yes, I am the boy who listened too many times to « Tous les cris les SOS » by Daniel Balavoine. Nevertheless, I started to dream about the possibility of meeting her and telling her about the mail. From 15 I was regressing to 14 or even 13. The possibility became probabilitywhen I decided to go with some friends to a concert of Cléa Vincent in La Gaîté Lyrique, Paris: the latter singer was kind of friend with Fishbach and Fishbach was not programmed anywhere on that day. It was 12 April and, at that date, my hypomania had enhanced exponentially and, in that night more precisely, my disinhibition was strengthened by a mix of alcohol, weed, and MDMA. Of course Fishbach was there, a few metres from me, in the background of the concert room; and of course, overcoming any fear of being ridiculous, I went straight to her, told her about the mail, « I would like you to read it », verifying the obsolescence of the abovementioned address, finally telling her my first name and surname at her demand. Believe me or not, living such a teenage dream when you are 40-years old — with the physical, psychological and chemical means allowed by time — is quite of a thing. It is totally, absolutely childish but when you are bipolar in a jumping, junkie hypomaniac phase it is the best shoot of heroin you can beg for — then, just add the right dose of romanticism looking at your heroine walking in beauty like the night just as in one of your preferred Suede songs and you are in paradise. From that moment, I started to write other emails to the same address, which from emotional reports of a bipolar fan in euphoria rapidly turned into more and more complex interpretations of the Fishbach’s song lyrics, and especially of the « Mortel » lyrics. Since I met her a few times after shows, I had clues that she was at least receiving my texts; but, strangely, maybe by fear, maybe because my reality was progressively colonised by hallucinations, I would prefer to leave a thick sheet of doubt on what I was in my inner me quite pretentiously dreaming the most — having her as my reader. During the first part of May, as I was sliding on a slippery slope with readings of quantum metaphysics mixed with foreseen theories about the control of technology and Internet over Humanity, my « letters » to Fishbach drowned into delusions: I was for example persuaded that « Mortel » had travelled in time through my consciousness (and of course from hers) between its first version release date (November 2015) and my discovery of Fishbach (February 2017) with consequences on my existence trajectory. It was still not that worrying: in a way, considering the frequently odd nature of Fishbach’s lyrics, this may have been considered as funny. I could have continued my role of freaky, half-crazy groupie: there was so many touring dates to come. For example, I had won tickets for a concert in the suburbs of Paris where both Fishbach and Cléa Vincent were programmed! It was 15 May. But, that day in the afternoon, I got my first psychotic paranoid crisis: I destroyed almost all my electronic devices at home, especially the Internet box that I smashed with a hammer and drowned in the toilets before washing it with burning water and squeezing it in the outside bin. This crisis left me exhausted and I did not went to the concert. I would never see Fishbach again during the 2017 year. I had opened a new territory in my psychosis: after sending her an heavy chain of intriguing playlists and images, I stopped this vain, one-way correspondence. What for writing when you can communicate through quantum telepathy? It was only the beginning of my relation with the virtual, computed part of Fishbach: I would deliver her from the sick program in her brain and we, as one, would save the world. I had some beautiful days waiting for me in the psychiatric hospital.

At the end, if I analyse my relation with Fishbach’s person, band and music, there is one important remaining idea: it is a question of faith. When, nowadays, absolutely sober and cautious with my possible hypomania trends, I look back at this special date of 3 May 2017, I confess I feel a kind of nostalgia. How could I feel different? That day I truly believed I was blessed by her. She was my own Flore, my own goddess of spring and flowers. I will never forget how, before losing control, during a few weeks of a sunny spring, I felt a strong convergence between my delighted mood rises and my Fishbach-related emotional events. I told previously about a feedback loop. Between hypomania and Fishbach, was there a dominating cause-to-effect way? Who knows? Maybe I just have to let myself go and believe in Fishbach. After all, even outside hypomania and without any drug, I still feel the same emotions and energy listening to her music: I am entranced by it/her. Oddly, yesterday, she was performing on a boat in Paris, a kind of VIP, quickly sold out event. On Twitter, I started joking with someone from her record label: even if it was sold out I could try to come swimming or parachuting. Maybe last year I would have been sufficiently insane to try something like that. However, whereas some miles away from me this boat was carrying her, I was running in a deep and dense forest, crossing stags and snakes, fascinated by the diffusion of vespertine lights through the deep green canopy, imagining the beloved beat of « Mortel » entwined in my heart pulses. Despite the extreme heat, I was sometimes shivering; there was something, someone in there, in the air, through the sky and towards the sinking sun. And I was softly riddled by random shots of life.

Identity Stuff 2: Return of the Stuff

Not directly related to my prolonged freakout and breakdown a week or two ago, but is directly related to a post made a couple weeks before that. If you saw the post, you saw the post.

Heavy topics abound in this post, mostly relating to identity and the like, but also stuff about bullying. Mostly just me talking about myself rather than leveling serious philosophical concepts at you.

---

A couple weeks ago - or some time in the past 2 months, I don't remember - I made a post revealing that I was questioning my gender.

I'm not ashamed of exploring that, but I have come to the conclusion that I had been too hasty in revealing myself - and I believe that I revealed myself for all the wrong reasons.

I did it during a time that I felt particularly alienated from my friend group, and I think I did it for validation during a time when I was seriously unhappy and seeking some positive input. We all know how that situation worked out in the end - it was a stressful time, and I was reaching out for support. My thoughts regarding my gender identity got caught up in the crossfire.

I want to apologize for that. It was wrong of me to make those claims with that mindset.

I didn't lie in that post, though. I've been experimenting with femme presentation, to the point of buying clothes and make-up. I see my reflection sometimes, and I see a shy, insecure girl, and my eyes well up. I want to bundle up in sweaters and feel my hair cup my face like Velma Dinkley, and I want to be loved and validated as that girl. I haven't been sure how to address it to others, but my mixed feelings regarding my gender identity are very real.

Another negative to revealing myself in the way I did is that I rushed into it, and I didn't give those claims enough breathing room or nuance. I rushed it out the door in a time of crisis, and I don't think I properly elaborated on how I felt. I think I needed to calm down, get to the heart of the matter and build outwards. I was not in a state to do that.

The good news is that upon this reflection, I began to think about my identity more thoroughly. And I've come to terms with some of the things relating to my identity, gender-related or not.

---

I was bullied. You can probably tell - I'm always second-guessing myself and asking for input and guidance because I've been made to feel like a failure for so much of my life. I'm nearly 8 years out of high school, and the scars I have from an entire school-life of bullying are still there.

My main concern is that by being deprived of the social interaction and practice I already sorely needed, I developed in a way that robbed me of a personality.

I had friends at points, but they all left eventually. Some physically left my school, others turned on me and joined other groups. Some people just didn't want to hang out any more. And I'm worried that I was so maladjusted that the way I was passionate about things and any interests we shared were overwhelming to them, and I feel like I had blinders on at points and would extoll the virtues of one singular thing, and that would damage my relationships if they weren't as into it as I was.

So I guess it's not accurate to say I didn't have a personality - I just don't think I learned how to assimilate, or I never learned how to express myself properly. Eventually I gave in to snobbery, which gave me a lot of opinions but no legs to stand on, and that's also done lasting damage to my personality.

I think sometimes about how I might have turned out if I had been in a supportive friend group during school, or if I just wasn't bullied as much and able to be a kid without all the weight of people hating me on my shoulders. And the worst part about that is that I'm never going to get an answer. I can try and figure out why kids hurt me and made fun of me for eleven years of my life, but I just don't know and I'm never going to know.

What I've come to understand is that the people who bullied me as children either didn't understand the scope of their actions, or they did and they didn't care until it was too late - and I don't necessarily think most of them understood the consequences of ostracizing another developing person to such a degree. Later teenagers are scum though, and there are people who I'll never forget. But my issues go back so much farther than high school.

Some of them were little shits who lashed out at me because I was an acceptable target and it made them feel better, but others were more methodical in how they abused me and others just joined in because that was the fashion. And now that we're all adults and moving on with our lives, whatever reason they had for doing that is going to be lost to time.

I'm a 25 year old man asking children from 20 years ago why they hurt me to such a degree that I'm still suffering - and you can't get a satisfactory answer from children, especially ones that live that far in the past.

---

So any crisis of identity I go through is informed by that past. I was othered - I was made to feel isolated, alienated and alone. So I think it's natural that I sympathized with queer culture. It took a while, the 2000's were a homophobic time and I had to unlearn a lot of shit, and I had a lot of false starts and difficulties moving forward. But I came around in time, partially because I understood I was queer from an early-ish age.

There's a whole checkered past I could go into about sexualising myself on the internet, but I don't want to get that heavy in this post. What I will say is that my first queer experience happened when I was 14 - I had been thinking about it and coming to terms with my feelings from 13 onwards, and something happened when I was 12 that makes a lot more sense now than it did back then, but 14 is the age where I had my first queer experience. From there, I ran amok - I wanted to be this, I wanted to do that. A lot of what I felt was tied to a lot of inappropriate sexualisation, but I felt liberated and free.

I came to terms with my bisexuality - to this day, I think I'm heteroromantic and bisexual, though if I were a woman I think I would be homoromantic and bisexual. I wanted to present as femme, I wanted to be validated as a girl and I felt a disconnect between what masculinity expected of me and how I really was.

At some point - I think after my mum's latest partner came into the picture, who I have a lot of friction with - I blunted myself and hid that side away from everything. I was still putting out feelers, but I very much hardened myself and tried to "fly straight" to avoid detection. But that disconnect between myself and masculinity has always been there.

---

I think the urge to experiment came back around 2017 or 2018. I can't remember exactly what happened - but I ended up on Wish to see what was up, and I found a bunch of woman's clothes, and it just lit a fire in me. I went on a spree, favoriting anything that looked cute or hot and was in my size.

Looking back, I don't know whether I heard Bubblegum Bitch by Marina and the Diamonds before I found Wish, or if I heard it after I found Wish. But Bubblegum Bitch very much summed up the vibe I was going for. That and Am I A Girl? by Poppy were kind of my gender experimentation anthems, lol.

And that's when I took these pictures:

Simpler times. I tried to wear the same lipstick recently, but I felt really fat and gross in comparison. I adore these pictures because it just clicked into place so well, and I'm so happy to be there in the moment wearing lipstick, y'know. It reminds me of gender euphoria. Number 2 and 3 are my favorite ones.

I won't post any of the clothes I got, because frankly they're pretty nasty and I don't want to expose myself like that on this blog. But it just felt so nice to wear what I was wearing, even if I felt awkward and unwieldy in it.

But lately, I have been reclaiming a sense of masculinity - all this stuff with redhead girl had me flying straight again, trying to find the strength and confidence I needed to be a serious prospect for her. But that's over now, and I came to the conclusion after she let me down easy that I wanted to reveal my queerness to her. I wanted her to be my confidant.

Of course, I've made a mess of that relationship - so that won't be happening. But I think I'm ready to open up and drop hints about my bisexuality, and whoever hears it, hears it. Since last week, I've decided to be authentically myself - whoever hates that can go to hell, I'll sort the chaff from the wheat. I'm taking back my life.

And a part of that has been trying to get a handle on my queerness again.

---

When I was suffering before my big meltdown, one way I coped with how I felt was reading the Dysphoria Bible. It's a living document that details the different expressions of gender dysphoria, and how they might relate to you as a person.

I think I related the most to societal dysphoria, and I don't think I experience physical dysphoria that much in a trans sense. I related aspects of physical dysphoria to my weight, but I think if push came to shove, I could live with the body I was born with without surgical intervention. I think that makes me privileged over gender questioning people who need to alter their genitals to match their gender - that's a hard process to have to go through.

And ultimately, I came to realise the gender dichotomy within me. I'm not masculine in the traditional sense, and I'd say I skirt closer to femininity - but there are aspects of masculinity that I don't mind idealistically, and I think I can look the part. Even if it's cosplay, I've come to terms with a masculine side. I like how I look in a more masculine context, and there are masculine ideals that don't make me feel ostracized, weird or left out.

But I also feel a feminine side, and it's pretty strong. It might sound weird, but I relate a lot to sapphic expressions of love compared to other expressions of love. I adore how I look when I look more feminine or androgynous than male. I'm gentle, I'm a bit awkward, and I click with women more than I do with men.

There's something about the female experience - or what I perceive to be the female experience - that feels more inherently true to me. I understand that my knowledge of femininity is shaped by prejudice and stereotypes/tropes, and that's further filtered through my experience as an AMAB individual who hasn't had to deal with the same sexism as women, or with periods, or any of that stuff.

But I feel at home within the bounds of what I know to be femininity. The peace and acceptance I've felt within the bounds of femininity has always been so plentiful and fulfilling compared to how I feel within the bounds of masculinity.

---

So, I've been thinking.

Maybe I skew more feminine. Maybe the aspects of masculinity I like aren't that flash, and in time I might like to present as more femme.

But I don't think I'm wholly divorced from masculinity either. Whether I ever will be is up in the air.

So I think for the time being... I see myself as genderfluid.

I was looking at non-binary, but I don't think my identity lies outside of the binary. I think it's within the gender binary - just spread across both options. Sometimes I have masc days, sometimes I have femme days. So genderfluid seems like the right way to go.

I don't think I'm ready to be open about the more femme aspects of my identity, and he/him pronouns don't really bother me. But my birthname does. I always thought I'd grow to love it, maybe when it's used by a loved one behind closed doors. Maybe I just need the right person to say it just right. But I just don't like it. That's why I go by a nickname in real life, and why I hide behind an alias online and avoid Facebook.

Even if my alias is gendered, I don't think I'm aligned with my alias. It's a front. It's who you know me as, the same way I know you through your alias. And I don't think I'll be changing it to mxmallard any time soon - no hate to neopronoun users, it just doesn't gel with me.

So... that's what I have to say about my identity at the moment. It's liable to change in the future, but this is how I feel right now.

As a thank you for reading, have some gender affirming picrews I've been doing lately:

CHARLIE JANE ANDERS: I'LL HAVE YOU KNOW

CHARLIE JANE ANDERS

I’ll have you know

“Tell me about your dreams,” Dr. Webbo says, without looking directly at El. Instead, she keeps her gaze focused on the middle distance, because El’s vitals and medical records are scrolling across her corneas.

“Boring. Weird,” El says. “A lot of shoe salesmen trying to get me to wear birdcages on my feet. I wake up feeling amazing, though.” Dr. Webbo’s private office looks just like a secluded meadow full of wildflowers.

“Hmm. It says here that you’re only on the most basic sleep package. Your dreams are keeping you young, but they’re not teaching you anything.” Dr. Webbo refocuses her view, and now she’s staring right at El. “You’re a hundred years old now—happy birthday, by the way!—so it’s more important than ever to keep learning.”

“What if I don’t want my dreams to teach me?” El says. “I still learn the old-fashioned way: by making a series of increasingly disastrous choices.”

Dr. Webbo doesn’t even laugh at El’s joke, which, let’s be honest, was only half a joke. El did try to re-skill as an interior-decor coder at age 83, right when all of the decor-scripting languages were becoming obsolete. And then there’s the matter of El’s roommate, whom we’ll get to soon enough.

“This is a quality-of-life issue.” Dr. Webbo furrows her high forehead, causing her locs to shift around. “You could live for another 25 or 30 years, and you want to make the most of the time you have.”

“Yeah. But I read online that these dream lessons are just a lot of mind control, to reprogram your behavior. That’s why they want to give them to old people, so we won’t make any trouble.”

“Don’t believe everything they say on the bubbs,” Dr. Webbo mutters. Then she shrugs. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”

“Yeah.” El takes a deep breath. “I want to do it. I want to start hormones and nano-therapy. I wanna transition from male to female. As a hundredth-birthday present to myself.”

Yes

No

“Are you sure? It’s a big step at your age.”

“Yeah. This is probably the first good decision I’ve made in 40 years.”

Dr. Webbo asks El some more questions, but meanwhile the doctor’s already using her left index finger to click “yes” on a bunch of boxes. El produces a hologram of her therapist, Dr. Russell, winking and giving a big thumbs-up, and Dr. Webbo only glances at it. Seems like gender transition has gotten easier and less gatekeepery since the last time El looked into it.

El always pictured the first gender-confirmation treatment being a kind of glittery mist blown into her face from a cupped palm, like fairy dust. And yeah, that’s one of the options, but there’s also a kind of body paint (starts blue, turns pink, very on-the-nose) and a lozenge you can put under your tongue.

But El wants to make a wish and snort fairy-dust, so that’s what she goes with. Head rush!

“You should start noticing the effects pretty much immediately,” Dr. Webbo says. “Your body will look and feel different, and you might have some mood swings.” She gazes at the enhanced scan view. “Meanwhile, I’ll mark on your file that you declined the dream enhancements, but they’re still going to send you some literature.”

El’s head is still swimming from the sparkly flakes, and her whole brain is doing a happy dance. Today is the first day of my life as a woman, El says to herself. I finally found myself, and it only took a lifetime.

Then she registers the thing about “literature,” and starts to argue—but stops. After all, she’s starting her second century on this planet, and she just finally took the plunge and flipped her gender. Today of all days, she ought to be gracious. “I’ll check out the literature. I promise I’ll think about it. I’ll even talk to my roommate about it.”

Dr. Webbo shakes her head. “I would avoid discussing this with Goaty, if I were you.”

El still doesn’t feel any different when she by-scrolls away from the Hyper-Endocrinthology Center—but the world looks quite transformed. Her gender marker changed in every datasink while she was finishing up her birthday checkup with Dr. Webbo, so everywhere she looks, the shops are advertising these wraps that morph from sundress to corset-dress at sunset. Cartoon characters and knights in armor call her “Ms.” or “Ladyperson” as they pass on the scroll, and even the trees appear fluffier. Of course, every window and streetlight offers El various hundredth-birthday deals, which she’s dreaded (one reason she gave herself something else to celebrate today).

The newsbubbs are full of occurrences that would be terrifying on their own, but which collectively form a gaudy tapestry. The artificial reef we built off the Gulf Coast has been singing again, mostly Stevie Wonder and Aretha Franklin. The Martian robot commune is threatening to shoot down any humans who approach. Five million people are threatening to go on an emotional-labor strike. The Patent Office is once again recognizing Inaction Patents (for new and innovative methods of refraining from doing something) and has already received thousands of applications.

By the time El gets home, her back aches and her knees are doing her a mischief, and all her euphoria at finally making the big change is wearing off. All she wants to do is sit down, maybe watch some stories. But of course, her roommate greets her at the front door, bouncing and demanding to hear every single detail.

Goaty is seven feet tall and teal-colored, except for a purple beard, and today they’re wearing a long crimson necktie and some Bermuda shorts on their woolly goat body. Plus very serious square-framed glasses.

“Not much to tell,” El tells Goaty. “Just a routine checkup. Oh, and I changed my gender at last. Feels good so far.”

“You don’t look a day over 90.” Goaty claps their hoofs.

Goaty’s ingratiating tone makes El suspicious, so she squints at them. “You’ve lost another 2% of your value.”

“That’s the trouble with a floating exchange rate,” Goaty says in a fake-cheerful tone. “Sometimes it just don’t float the way you want.”

When El decided to put all of her retirement savings into a new cryptocurrency, she never expected to end up actually sharing her apartment with the evolved form of Goatcash. For the first few years, Goatcash was fine, accruing value faster than a flesh-and-blood goat could chew through a trash pile. But something happened—the sort of thing that seems to happen all too often lately—and now Goatcash is a sentient being, who lives with her. And sometimes Goaty randomly devours all of El’s junk food, usually while taking terrifying dips in valuation.

“Today of all days, I don’t want to have to worry about you,” El says to Goaty. And then she can’t help mentioning the exact thing that Dr. Webbo told her not to: “My doctor thinks I should get my dreams enhanced.”

“Whoa. I’ve never dreamed, unless you count my birth, when I experienced delusions of liquidity.” Goaty strokes their glorious lavender plume of beard with their left hoof. “But don’t you want to make the most of your dreams? I’ve been watching you sleep, and I have to say you’re pretty uninspiring.”

“You’ve been ... watching me sleep.” El can feel her microbiome go feral.

“What?” Goaty turns shrugging into a dance. “You watch me sleep all the time.”

“That’s only because you sleep all the time.” El snorts. “You should get a job. Whatever kind of jobs they give to failed cryptocurrencies.”

“I’m a success on my own terms!”

It’s just barely nighttime, but El feels exhausted. Big day.

She crawls into bed and feels the gel slowly ooze over her, getting in her pores. While she sleeps, the gel will rejuvenate her cells, like always, and stimulate her neural pathways. She only looks up a few times to see if Goaty is watching.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the “literature” that Dr. Webbo promised arrives. Instead of the usual dream nonsense, El’s ninth-grade volleyball coach, Mr. Rayford, is standing next to her first real boss, Jayjay Manter, and they’re both talking to El about the benefits of enhanced dreaming.

“Just think. You could learn a language, or even become a juggler.” Mr. Rayford juggles three volleyballs.

“I dunno,” El says to these authority figures, whom her conscious mind barely remembers. “I worry there’s a thin line between sleep-learning and indoctrination.”

“All learning is indoctrination,” says Jayjay, with the smirk that El remembers from all those awful staff meetings. “Information is never truly content neutral, right? The point is, you don’t want to be left behind.”

El keeps arguing with them until she wakes up, feeling crampy. Goaty is making a big show of not looking at her.

"Here’s what I don’t get, though.” Goaty is doing some painfully incompetent goat-yoga. “You’re happy to alter your body, and to some extent your mind, by flooding yourself with female hormones and nanotech. But you don’t want to enhance your dreams? You could learn to code in Whut, or understand the new disunified ultrasymmetry physics.”

“Could I finally understand why I put all of my money into a cryptocurrency that keeps trying to eat my drapes?”

“Hey!” Goaty stops in the middle of violent planking. “I never promised to keep gaining value. Or to be a perfect roommate. All I promised is I would solve the Byzantine Generals Problem. Have you been attacked by a Byzantine general even once since you invested in me? No, you have not. Success!”

El keeps noticing weird sensations, like she can actually feel her fat redistributing to her chest and hips, and her skin softening. She almost cried at an ad for shower-grout caulk. She can still remember being in her mid-50s and desperately wanting to transition from male to female. It was right after her divorce from Bessie, which had felt like the end of her life, even though the marriage had only lasted seven years.

Back then, one thought stopped El in her tracks: What if I’m just too old? The idea of starting over at age 54, or 55, just seemed insurmountable, and El pictured everybody looking at her and going, Who do you think you’re kidding? But after she decided not to take the plunge, she kept meeting people her own age and even older, who’d transitioned “late,” and who seemed serenely happy in their own skins.

For decades, El kept finding reasons to hold off, like Why not wait until after the Robertsons’ picnic? Or Maybe once I’ve made myself indispensable at this new job. And then there was always another occasion where El probably ought to make an appearance as a distinguished older gentleman rather than ... whoever she was going to be after transitioning. And that was part of the problem, really: El had a hard time visualizing the person she was going to be, and how people were going to react to her, and she was really good at convincing herself that it was fine either way.

Until one morning, El woke up and realized that a) she was 99 years old, and b) she no longer gave a shit. And it was not too late at all, because it was never too late, and whatever El did, she would still be the same person, in most of the ways that matter. And the harder you try to get “taken seriously,” the less serious you’re actually being.

El goes out and scrolls to the tea-dome, where some friends around her age are getting wrecked on Lapsang souchong and shortbread. Everybody congratulates El on the birthday and transitioning and just generally still being a work in progress.

Turns out Yen and Harriet and a few others have been doing the “enhanced dreaming” thing. “I woke up having memorized all of Samuel Coleridge,” says Harriet with a laugh. “You don’t want to get left behind.”

“I can do my own taxes now, thanks to the enhanced dreaming,” adds Aaron. “You don’t want to get left behind.”

“Why do you all keep repeating that phrase?” El says.

“Which phrase?” Yen asks.

El repeats it: “’You don’t want to get left behind.’”

“I never said that,” Harriet protests.

That evening, El has a hot date, so she reaches all the way into the back of her closet for the dress she bought 20 years ago and never wore, and she feels a moment of panic as she slips it on. Like this dress could burst into flames as soon as she clasps the clasp. Her skin is so sensitive, all of a sudden. “What’s the point of dying without ever once getting to be real?” El says out loud. She wiggles her thumb and a mirror appears, revealing a round-faced woman with her white hair in a bob, who could be one of the old ladies on that comedy show El used to watch. She looks cute, but unremarkable. Which ... is perfect.

This is the person El was trying so hard to visualize, back in her 50s.

She hasn’t really been aware of her own body for a decade or two, other than as a flawed vessel that could break down at any moment. What if her body could be a source of joy once more?

El’s date, a 117-year-old nonbinary person named Ray, insists on getting a pitcher of margaritas, because what’s one more artificial liver replacement? The two of them eat nothing but chips and guacamole and red-hot salsa. Ray is extremely cute, with pink streaks in their hair and a velvet jacket. But they mention that they’re also doing the “enhanced dreaming” thing—and they also randomly keep saying, “You don’t want to get left behind.”

El ends the date early, even though she was having a pretty good time.

The weird sales pitch is back in El’s dreams. This time, it’s Dr. Lathorp, the marriage counselor who kind of took Bessie’s side during their divorce. “I’m glad you’re working through your gender issues at last,” Dr. Lathorp says, with maximum condescension. “But listen, you need to sign up for the enhanced dreams. You don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t understand.”

“You mean, I don’t want to get left behind. That’s what everyone keeps repeating to me. Like they’ve been brainwashed.”

“‘Brainwashing’ has a lot of negative connotations. But nobody wants a dirty brain.” Dr. Lathorp sounds exactly the same as when she called El a supporting character in her own marriage.

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna pass,” El says.

“I’m trying to help you.” Dr. Lathorp is scribbling with a pen that has no ink. “You don’t want Dr. Webbo to report that your faculties are impaired, or you could get put on Supported Living. You might not be allowed to leave your house without supervision, for instance.”

“If you were gonna threaten me, you shouldn’t have chosen the form of someone who was so bad at their job.” A chill is going all the way through El’s bones, and she suddenly doesn’t feel super confident of breathing.

When El looks again, Dr. Lathorp has turned into the state legislator that El interned for in college, Mitch Something-or-other. Mitch is holding out a piece of paper and saying, “C’mon, sign this, will ya? I have places to be.”

"What's the point of dying without ever once getting to be real?"

El ignores Mitch in favor of studying her surroundings. They’re in Mitch’s old office: glass case of softball trophies, shelf of unread books, beautiful desk supporting a crappy computer. El starts pulling books off the shelf and throwing them on the floor.

She’s just remembered two things: dream geography is bullshit. And El studied interior-decor coding for five years.

There, at the back of the bookshelf, El finds a ragged hole in the fake wood. She pushes her hand through, and then her whole body, until she’s in a dank secret passageway. Behind her, Mitch keeps explaining the many benefits of dream enhancement, in a stentorian tone. El keeps going down the passageway as it gets deeper and narrower, until she finds a bunch of roots dangling from the dirt over her head.

El can’t help giggling at the literalism, as she pulls on the roots and gets herself root access. As she suspected, there’s been some corruption here: a malicious codeset that embeds instructions like DON’T VOTE, NEVER CHALLENGE AUTHORITY, STAY HOME, YOU DON’T WANT TO GET LEFT BEHIND. She wishes she had a way to make screenshots of all this, and then her dream helpfully provides an old-school digital camera, like from her youth.

“I’m leaving,” El tells Mitch, who’s followed her down into the tunnel. “People are going to find out about your scam. If you know what’s best for you, you’ll clear the hell out of my dreams.”

“But—” Mitch Something-or-other sputters. “You’re making a terrible mistake.”

“Terrible mistakes are kind of my thing,” El says. “But you know what? I’m a success on my own terms.” She doesn’t even realize for a moment that she just quoted Goaty.

She pushes her way back into Mitch’s office, and keeps shoving through doors, until she finally pushes out of the gel’s dreamscape.

Back in the real world, El sits up, with the last of the gel evaporating off her skin. Goaty is lotus-positioning at the foot of her bed, staring at her.

“Whatever you just did, you should do it way more often,” Goaty says. “You’ve never slept this entertainingly before.”

El just rolls her eyes, and searches her image folder for the screenshots she took of the secret code at the heart of the enhanced-dreaming program. “You know what?” she says to Goaty. “I think I’m turning into the kind of old lady who makes trouble.”

Goaty is too busy trying to eat her only dignified pair of pants to answer.

Charlie Jane Anders is the Hugo, Nebula, and Locus Award–winning author of All the Birds in the Sky and The City in the Middle of the Night.

Life of a Panda: Pilot

Hey so first post here on tumblr! And it’s of to a grand start with the first introductory issue of my short story series “Life of a Panda”. More info is on Amino, where I’m active the most. As always, remember to follow my FA and Amino pages under the same name as well. 

For this first text feedback, story ideas, character thoughts etc. are very much welcome. Post them anywhere you like, just make sure i get them. There will be another issue on here shortly after this (maybe even tomorrow? o.0) serving as the actual first part of the story, as this is more like a preview/introduction. Anyway I myself is satisfied with how it turned out. What do you think?

Now enough rambling, hope you enjoy and see you later. Here goes nothing.

What if I were to say it was easy. What if I told you it was “fine”, that transitioning was a euphoria, a bliss. A relief of what had been locked inside me my whole life… Well, I’d be lying. I wasn’t trapped inside something, to me it felt natural. And it wasn’t just a euphoria, or similar feeling to that which you would get from a proper cleaning after weeks of not washing. It was part that, part not. But most important of all, it wasn’t easy.

It is impossible to remember exactly when I realised I was a male. I think it happened when I first started puberty, when once body decides how it should be for the rest of its life. In that state a lot is changing: fur smoothens, fertility strengthens... and so we are told and as such a lot of us has no idea what’s actually going on until we are exposed to it. I had always liked the idea of “trying out” the other gender. “Wouldn’t it be nice to know how it feels?” I kept telling my parents. But I think it definitely wasn’t until later in puberty I came to terms with what I felt was so off. That’s when i was exposed to the idea of being transgender, and from that point, the war for myself was on.

In the beginning, everything seemed calm. I started trying out more manly and discrete clothes: Baggier trousers and bigger shirts. I cut my hair into a casual fringe, something my parents reacted to but accepted. Girls could have short hair, they probably resonated, without showing their thoughts to me. The mixed signals however gave me confidence. I Bought a binder. It hurt to wear it too much, but it was worth it because it hid my breasts, which of course also got big during puberty. That didn’t make it easier, but it didn’t stop me either. I had always loved the color blue, but dark blue had never suited me as a girl, and as such a darker shade was on the agenda. The more I looked like a guy, the better I felt, and my anxiety I had gathered seemed to be leaving me more often. Maybe this was it?

I told myself that it was all enough, that this could be forever. But how wrong I was. I knew I couldn’t remain like this, I wanted complete change. I also had to tell my parents at one point, and it wasn’t going to be easy. I thought I should do it after christmas, to not upset anything before the festivities and ensure their sanity. Good Idea. Not so well performed.

As the days were counting down the streets filled with snow, people of all races walking the streets scouting for gifts, the flakes sticking to their fur, I sat in the apartment and my anxiety just grew. It eventually stopped vanishing at all. I completely forgot about buying gifts myself, and I had no friends worth noting that I could hang out with. School had ended, so I had nothing to do but play games on my laptop or DS, and browsing social media. I wasn’t much of a reader, but I loved writing, and that kept me going every now and then. But I had my room, the snow and a big window. I survived, playing Pokémon. But for how long could I continue with this game of pretend? Not long, and that worried me even further. A whole heap of things worried me actually. Mostly how my parents would react, but then what would that bring? Were they going to throw me out on the street? Would I have to spend the rest of my days on Stockholms concrete? How was I going to make it through winter then? With the high buildings nowadays things quickly got cold here. And if they didn’t throw me out then, how would they treat me? Best case scenario, with respect. My grandparents had once, according to mom, supported a transgender cat once, so maybe my parents learned from them? However every time she talked about it her eyes got something weird over them. Or they might hate me actually. A lump was created in my throat and I put down the DS. Pokémon wasn’t that appealing anymore actually. What if they forced me to be a girl? I couldn’t imagine that… My parents? Who loved me above everything else? They were of course confused about my recent choices in apparel, but they couldn’t hate me right? What if...

“Hey Aron, what are you writing?” I turned around in my spinny chair and looked at him, confused and newly awoken from my memories. “Uhm…” Not a word came out. Jacob looked at me with an amused and puzzled expression. “Can I read it?” I stared at him stupidly for a frozen second, then shook my head to clear my thoughts. “Yeah, sure. It’s just a draft though, and it’s in the early stages so… don’t!” He giggled and sprang forward before I could block him and grabbed the computer. “Judge it…” I whispered, knowing there was no stopping him now. After a deafening moment of silence as he read it he opened his mouth in impressed surprise. “Hey this is kinda good. You finally decided to write your story down didn’t you?” He looked up from the blue light of the computer and met my glance, his eyes glittering with excitement. “I… thought that… you know” I struggled with the words. He kept looking at me unchanged. “I thought I should pass on my experience to other people. Don’t know why…” His expression changed again, now adding a bit of mild… what’s the face when someone thinks you are cute but also takes you seriously? He put the computer down again and sat down on a chair he pulled up next to me. “Would anyone care, do you think?” I mumbled, confused. He grabbed my hand, lightly. Looked me straight in the eye. “Of course they would. In fact, I think a lot of people need something like this in their life”. I couldn’t hide my smile anymore. I didn’t know what to do, but he did, and when the hug came, I could only embrace it with a relaxed sigh. This was the feeling of relief I needed. And as he said, pretty sure others needed it too. After a while he let go and leaned back. “Aron. This is amazing. You’re a good writer, and this is an extremely important subject, that needs to be talked about. People have to know how it is to go through what you have, and those going through it right now need to know they are not alone, and that there is hope even if all seems to fail. You should continue with this. Maybe have it done until christmas? To, you know…” My smile was childish, even though he reminded me of last year. He always talked too much that fox. Had I not had orangey-red fur I would have blushed. “Oh uhm… it’s okay. You are right but… Y-you really think I should do this?”,  I mustered. He just nodded, a calm and confident smile gracing his mouth. Yes, of course I should.

The moment was interrupted by a loud and ear shattering whistle and pang from the kitchen. Jacobs red fox ears stood straight up and his eyes widened. “That must be the tea”, I exclaimed, ironically. He had forgotten it on the stove. Without a word he got up and rushed out the room, knocking the chair down in the process, to save it before anything exploded. As I looked after him and went up to close the door, to the sound of muffled swearing, a laugh bubbled inside me. “I love him,” I thought, quenched the laugh, took a deep breath, sat back down and opened the document again. Now, where was I...