There's nothing more trans than falling in love for a night with a bald musician who's never given head before, and walking back home the next morning rejecting a cat call from trade across the street and then him threatening to shoot you for being a dude.
"Suck my dick" I yell at him as I hop on an Indego bike, effulgently running away.
Writing journal entries in code is the best way to express yourself in public btw. The expressive language is still visible to the eye but garbed in black, white, green, and blue robotic text that turns the emotion into laborious and boring data. Similar to straight men that linger the erotic thought of Persephone being their first but never touching me or asking to. Sharing moments of unforgettable lust only for me to speak them out loud and no one believe me because of how straight you are.
This blog post is a collage held together with glitter tape that won't decompose even after my body has decayed from throwing myself off a building because of this past weekend I spent with my family.
I'll give my grandmother the world when I can. Even when she dead-names me and says Persephone is too ugly for a beautiful Latina.
Every time I visit my family I feel like my vessel and mind turn into puddy that stretches in two directions. One way points to excitement to see my mother and affirm how the older I get the more I look like her and the other direction pulls me to 16 year old me who hid behind her tumblr contemplating how to tell her father that her boyfriend isn't gay because he's dating me.
My father came to the family function and I saw his face brighten when everyone spoke in excitment about my musical accomplishments growing up, and their thrills made them ignore the fact that they were misgendering me. Finally... he got the chance to talk about his kid. The one he knows, not the person she became.
While I was there, I existed somewhere else... with a bird-watcher. Daydreams of him become fairy tales in my mind with the same moral-ending... "If only she were a different kind of girl.".
I plan on posting to the blog weekly with: fictional stories about my present, interviews with intimant relationships, traces of thought that need to be shared.
Shall we meet every Friday? We won't be able to meet in person and can only talk on here, but I can tell you what perfume I'm wearing that day. Today is Glossier You Doux with a Palo Santo + Sage roller on top.
Maybe I'm stoned or maybe the air in my chest doesn't exist and I'm barely breathing these days. But I can't keep running into updated images of people and reminding myself of memories we both buried in that time capsule. It gives me too much fucking anxiety!!!
To cut this anxiety, my week was occupied with work events and people-watching at Philly pride before coming to Chapterhouse to write.
This week was my work's 30th anniversary event and I was asked to "DJ", AKA make a playlist with 5 second crossfade and play some transition music between speeches.
While my work celebrated this milestone; I celebrated my J.K. Rowling TERF coworker finally quitting.
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I will reference my professional life here. Since some of the craziest shit happens at work... But just remind yourself that my writings are auto-fiction.
Life is fake and maybe the way I see things are too real and I have no willpower to caress my shoulder and remind myself that it is, indeed, all fake.
So don't go spilling my beans because... are the beans even real???
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They gave me a rental where I drove to the sticks and grabbed some materials for the party.
I hate going there but the grant that funds my position requires me to leave ass dimples in that office chair while we wait for clients who never come. I go mainly for the alone time with my head.
After hours of sitting there and senseless conversations about the weather, I was able to finally leave and smoke my first Delta-8 joint I bought next door. That shit hit insanely different, like a boiled egg when you're starving.
I begin to drive.
On the way back I noticed a man driving close to me but occasionally speeding fast and swerving between other cars and lanes just to impress me. So, I mirrored him.
Like two dogs sniffing each other's assholes, we played for a bit. Ignoring the beginnings of rush hour. I didn't find him attractive, but what we were doing was so hot.
As cars started to pack like beans in a can, he merged really close to me yelling to grab the brochure in his hand.
"I'm a glass blower! Come to my studio!! Take this!!!"
I grabbed it and noticed the number on the brochure was crossed out and his personal number was written right next to it. I may use it to see if I can be gifted one of his pieces. Let's use some of my picks as a transition into the next bit of my week.
My cat lays close to me for hours without me needing to touch her... it only took four years.
Maybe that's why I'm off the apps less. Her oracular eye should never see this...
Or this...
I think she'd appreciate this though...
