A model gay and a bad transsexual

My passing has gotten out of control, as in, I'm consistently read as a dude lately. When I go out shopping with Ben, it's always, "How are you boys doing?" It's funny, too, the way people, and usually women, treat you as a gay man. There's this kind of chummy will-and-grace-ness that I think I kind of like. It makes a lot more sense to me than the sisterhood chumminess I used to get. I'm also realizing that I find it refreshing to be gendered in a clear way at all. For the past two years or so, people often didn't quite know how to address me, and I didn't know how I would be addressed or read. It's such a relief to have an agreed upon gender again, even if it is in itself a somewhat liminal one.

And, frankly, a fun one. Even if the underlying implication of being treated like a gay best friend by strangers is, "You're non-threatening, sexually neuter, not a real man," and even if the interactions tend to be pretty superficial, I like it. I like that people can feel safe enough to let their guard down around me a bit. And, truth be told, I'm not threatening, and I'm not a "real" man in a binary traditional sense, so, there you go.

I'm singing Pegasissy songs a full octave down. And actually recording again! Hopefully the new CD will at least be ready by the time I perform with the Tranny Roadshow (!!!).

Last night I was in a dismal mood, drinking wine and popping hydrocodone and smoking weed, and I gave myself a little miniature shot of T off the schedule, just as an unwise pick me up, half hoping it would jolt me a little out of my emotional throes (which it did) and half simply wanting to inject something. I think this officially makes me a "bad transsexual" and by rights means that I should get my reasonable human being card revoked. Being on T (and, maybe, being 23 and increasingly burned out on this pseudo-James Dean business) has given me a strange perspective on my usual emotional self-destructive thoughtless style. My brain is working in such a way that I can really see what I'm doing wrong, and why I do what I do, and what the sensible conclusion is. It's like I gained an extra conscience, or a boost to it. I haven't smoked a cigarette in two weeks, and besides yesterday have been pretty good about other substances. Of course, just because I can intellectually understand my little addictions and little despairs doesn't mean they affect me any less forcefully. Except for crying. I've cried exactly once (not counting tearing up slightly at Dot's funeral) since starting T, and it lasted about thirty seconds. I've even tried crying, but couldn't manage to do it. I ended up just making a face like this.