Whatezvs.

Needless to say, SF was the bomb. I did all sorts of terrible tourist things, like buy a copy of Tales of the City in Books Inc. and pose with it in front of the Castro Theater. I hiked to the top of Corona Heights Park and picked a buttercup and pressed it in the pages of the Maupin book. I'm ridiculous.

And now I'm back in the Euge, back at work, back with cold feet--that is, literal cold feet, because the damp here doesn't seem to get the "do not disturb" sign implied by two pair of smartwool socks.

I had a pretty severe allergic reaction to Ben's pet rats last night (Black Mamba and something else, the poor little dears.) I was having a lot of trouble breathing, and I kind of feel like I had some small seizure or something, and so work is even more arduous. I don't know what this has to do with gender, but I just needed to complain.

I do feel my voice actually changing, though, to the point that it's slightly deeper in everyday conversation. A song I started writing two weeks ago already doesn't need a capo. I'm trying to sing a bunch to keep my pitch semi-reasonable, but it's a small battle.

My mustache tufts are getting rougher, and are spreading inward. Soon I'll be 'stache-capable.

I shot myself in the butt for the first time last Thursday, and it wasn't so horrible. I was given a few glasses of white wine on the train by some young men from Omaha, and when I got home I, with a certain amount of trepidation and excessive use of alcohol swabs, injected successfully with surprisingly little pain. And boy, the rush I felt afterward. You kids should try it some time.