Goddamn Time!

It's about time I posted something, because there have been things to report. I'll try to remember faithfully.

On the business end (always my favorite), my T dosage has been upped. I was taking .5 ccs of 200 mg/ml testosterone cypionate every two weeks, and now I'm taking it every ten days. I had my first ten-day shot on Sunday, and it seems to have preempted my mood dip quite nicely. I don't think I can recall a time when it was so relatively easy to get myself out of bed on a Monday morning.

The past few shots I've kind of wimped out and only put the needle in halfway--though it didn't hurt as much, it bled more, leaked a little oil, and didn't give me as strong an initial rush. This time I went for it and really jabbed myself, with seemingly better or more complete results. The bad thing: over the past few months I've lost what Ben called my "lady butt", meaning that my ass is now more muscle than blub. And, I've learned, muscle bruises way more readily. It's Tuesday and my butt cheek is still way bruised. TMI? Probably. Just don't slap me on the ass between now and Thursday.

Andrew laughed at me when I said I was stubbly, but I think it's legitimate. A few days ago Molly put "Kiss Molly" on the list of chores for the day, and when planted a wet smack on her cheek, she said I was stubbly. I trust her.

A few weeks ago I made some unhealthy party decisions and ended up outside Burrito Boy with some mostly ridiculous people, eating a bean and cheese I was barely coherent enough to order and chain smoking at 5:30 in the morning. Some total dolt of a hipster (who I hear is an outrageous closet case, to be anything but discreet) was asking the two girls in our party whether they'd be more likely to go for vaginal or anal fisting, in a theoretical way. When I chimed in (vaginal, at least to start off, because of the natural lube), the dolt was incredulous: "What would you know? You only have one hole! Would you, like, take it in your URETHRA?!" I was on the verge of explaining his folly when Ben made the wise suggestion that it was neither the time nor place. I guess it's a kind of triumph of passing when a drunk hipster adamantly denies that you have a vagina. I'll take what I can get.

In the (pop culture) news of the queer, I read an amusing and interesting article with Heather Cassils, the Canadian performance artist and genderqueer hottie with whom Lady Gaga makes out in the music video for "Telephone." If there weren't enough reasons to love Gaga, when Heather called out the camera men on their drooling over "girl on girl action" as not being tasteful or accurate, Gaga asked how Heather identified. Good to know that she loves the tranz as well as the gayz.