- People who are desperately trying to be interesting (but are not)
- People who are eagerly, grinningly pretending that they have not given up on the idea of happiness, beauty and truth
- People who are trying to “tick all the boxes of success” on their slow, inexorable march towards death
- People who have decided that the only way they can be happy is with the physically ravishing and completely oblivious object(s) of their obsession
- People whose deep emptiness pervades their entire existence
- People who stopped living sometime during high school or university
- People who demonstrate their uniqueness by being exactly like all the other hipsters around them
- People with no personality of their own whatsoever
- People who tell the same stories over and over again
- Human parasites
- People who to be around sucks all oxygen from the room
- People who make you die inside
- People who read clickbait
- Humour bloggers
Nietzsche: Ok guys most people are mindless sheep, I’m just saying, give them jobs they like and maybe don’t promote them to leadership positions?
Nietzsche: OH NO RANDROIDS
Forsooth, A Wild Gay APPEARS.
It is the rare TRANSPLAID:
After many BATTLES, it evolves to the bold GAYTARTAN:
Its final EVOLUTION is the adorably individual PAISEXY:
TRANSPLAID’s PREVOLUTION is of course QUIOLET, which is queerly enough, related to GAYPURPLE.
The truth is that those dear QUIOLET and GAYPURPLE are sadly related to the rather political VIOLENT.
Its evolution is the patronising TRANSPLAINED, which after ranting on Tumblr, evolves to GAYTARD.
Its final form is FAILSLEY. Or FAILSEX. Whatever. At that point the distinction is moot and no-one cares anymore.
I, The Drug Dealer and Puppycat are, respectively, the Fashionista, the Barista and the Hipsta of the hospital. The Three Musketeers of good fashion in the hospital, clad in excellent shirts, pants and two-toned shoes. It is possible we loiter around like alley cats, talking dirty.
It turned out that Puppycat had spent all of her time and money on makeup:
“Look, I was being self-destructive. But fabulously.”
Paisley Thursday. Be there or be square.
I am like, a jillion years old.
A jillion is a 1000 fillions.
A fillion is at least 1/5 of a firefly.
A firefly is about 1/2 of a season.
Thus, a fillion is about a fortnight.
A jillion is 38 years.
Well, about a jillion anyway.
How has it been since I came out for the second time?
Amazing. A huge relief. Scary at times. A little confusing but not that confusing, certainly not as confusing as life was before. My head has been incredibly clear.
I’m Tom- short for Tomás- and I am currently sitting around being well-dressed, smart, interesting and cool. I am mostly straight, I have two awesome cats, I have started rereading one of my favourite book series’, “The Riverrun Trilogy” by S. P. Somtow, one of my favourite authors. I bought some new clothes and fountain pens on the weekend and caught up with friends. I am basically contented and complete.
One thing I really did not expect was it to be such a relief or for me to feel suddenly so much better and so much happier and confident. I thought it would be much more confusing and harder in my head.
So, how has it been otherwise?
Other people have mostly been supportive, or at least congratulatory. Seriously! It has been much much better than I had anticipated. I feel like I have a lot of people to talk to, and generally they are all pretty awesome! People have noticed that I look happier and more confident and that my demeanour has changed. I am constantly getting compliments about my new wardrobe (which looks pretty awesome). It also helps that in general my friends have been interested in the whole process! I think it is interesting!
Here is a photo:
However, I have been a lot more sensitive than I expected in regards to when things have made me feel upset.
The people who have advertently or inadvertently made me feel uncomfortable have fallen into the following camps:
- Women (usually) who say “But you can be female and still like masculine things”. Not the point, honey. Plus, what if I am a feminine man (I am).
- Men (usually) who are fixated on “But you don’t have a penis and phalloplasty sucks”. None of your business, I would like to see how well you pleasure your partner(s), and once again, none of your business. (Actually I am quite pleasantly surprised at how little of this I got. Really, only one or two people)
- People who jump the gun and become very insistent- even when I say I have not decided yet– on “So when are you doing X, Y or Z” when I have not made any decisions yet about whether I will do hormones or surgery or legal things. “Oh but you must!” — says who?
- People who later make inappropriate jokes or jokes that hinge on me being a “girl”. Fortunately this has not happened often but when it has it has, it has hurt.
- The wrong pronoun. This is actually probably the least of my concerns. Most of which has just been a matter of people forgetting inadvertently. I can excuse that as long as eventually people get the hang of it.
- Once again, the idea that “it only counts if you have done something”. Sometimes people for one reason or another choose not to take hormones or surgery at all, often for complex reasons. Does that somehow make their gender different? Given that the first stage in any transition anyway would be to “live as one’s gender”, I don’t see how this “does not count” or that close friends should be waiting to change their pronoun use.
- People posting links to anti-man rants that generalise everything about masculinity or manhood or men as being pathological or suggest that women should take over. Unhelpful. Inaccurate. Counter-productive. And kind of hurtful, actually. That sort of essentialism and black and white thinking is exactly what made historical male-centred patriarchies problematic. Oh, wait, you did not mean to include me in your anti-man rant. Why is that exactly? Oh, right, because I am not a “real man”?
On a much more positive and once again interesting note, since coming out quite a few people have approached me and said that what I have talked about really resonated with them– either because they understood a friend/family/other people much better, or because what I was describing really resonated with their own experiences and for the the first time they had talked about it openly and it was good.
So I guess one small action sometimes makes a big difference to the people around you in ways that are actually kind of awesome and unexpected.
Deutschy, campaigning for the Oriental Express since 1201!
It has been conclusively shown, via the power of the Internet but in particular the power of the great minds of Seraphim and myself that Our needs (the needs of Humanity & Co.) are quite simple; elegant and concise, you might say:
- Love pillows
- That are called ‘cat*’
- Made from a Japanese material that feels like boobs
- That cleans the haus
- Has 8 nipples
- *May or may not be a cat (undetermined, due to Schrödinger)
I present to you:
This is Býůbž. His number of buttons :3.
The other day, Puppycat, who is a puppy who is also a cat but not one of those infernal beasts known as a CatDog, pointed out a fundamental truth:
The truth is that whenever there are two cats, there is always an outgoing one and one weird reclusive one.
There is a Handsome Cat (a cuddly Burberry stripy cat) and a Pixie Cat (a skittish Tuxedo cat).
Doctors are vampires. They are after your blood. They stare at your jugular and palpate your carotids. They listen to the seductive drumbeat of your heart. They cut you and bleed you. They feast on the arcane signs found within your altered, filtered blood. They cast ritualistic spells with it. They predict the future. They never see the sun. They never sleep.
Their agents are the Blood Sisters, a goth/earth mother lesbian band of space elves who roam the wards early in the morning bleeding patients willy-nilly, collecting their life-forces and not even carrying pagers.
And radiologists are the worst. With their X-ray vision and their powers of ultimate rejection, they are the most arcane wizards of medicine, those with the ultimate right of veto. Radiation does not temper them, it makes them only stronger! They never see the sun and live in the dark, their pallid eyes sensing only electromagnetic radiation in the non-visible spectrum.
Worse yet, radiologists are never awake between the hours of 5pm and 9am (which is why they reject your scan requests). Which makes them…
Everyone knows that deep down I exist in the realm of the Lesbian Space Elves. I am probably one of those ones that ends up living on the dark sibling-planet on the other side of the orbit of the Lesbian Space Elf planet that contains SECRET SPACE ELF MANS who are also CATS.
Thus, this is the avatar of my Soul:
True Self Knowledge is a kind gift that strikes one at the most tender of moments (waiting for blood products on the ward after hours).
It was the oncology/haematology/gastroenterology ward aka Home and It Was Good.
Marky Mark and Fetlife/G were hanging out at Home at the desk with me and Puppycat, who had just finally tamed the manly and frayed ends of my motorcycle jeans . It became obvious that Fetlife/G and Marky Mark had a special bond (which is similar but different to Fetlife/G’s ‘bromance’ with Puppycat):
Me: You guys have such a bromance! It’s bromantic!
Puppycat: It’s totally not gay.
Me: It’s only gay if the balls touch!
Puppycat and I burst into uncontrollable spasms of laughter.
Marky Mark and Fetlife/G look at each other and at us nonplussed.
Puppycat and I continue to giggle.
Marky Mark and Fetlife/G look incredibly disturbed.
Giggling continues for 30 mins.
That Damn Sniper Dude. Totally free for professional development tutorials at all times. Don’t call him, he’ll call you!
They fought that day, Father and St Antony. Antony is my brother, Saint because that’s what everyone treats him like. God. Except Father Superior, of course. That’s because he’s the Father of God.
The words burst into my ears from downstairs. This wasn’t just another fight. So I stopped. Looked in the mirror at this man, sorry, girl. I pulled the cuffs long, adjusted the navy silk bow-tie, smoothed the eyebrow pencil moustache and really looked. My hair, just cut, was the right length for the suit. I would have made a great guy. I grinned quickly to myself, ran my fingers through my hair.
My brother blasted some more abuse at Father, the kind of stuff he got away with.
“Shut up! You shut up now!” Father finally shouted some authority crap at him. Dream on, city boy. Then a thud, crash, splinter. What the hell was that? I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know. I breathed in and looked back up into the mirror.
I slowly ran my clammy fingers down my jaw, then across Father’s stiff, smooth, Armani shirt collar. Down to my painful breasts, hot and bare against the clean fabric and to my quavering heart.
There was a thwack. An animal shriek. Thudding steps on the staircase.
What was I doing? I tore off the suit, folded it. Ran back to my room naked and guilty. Shit, shit, where were my clothes? I ducked into the closet as they ran into my room. Father hit Antony, hit him so hard. Every time he opened his mouth, another slap. Maybe a punch. But that wasn’t all that caught me. It was what he was wearing. I knew what this was about. And I knew where my clothes were.
(the tl;dr version of this is that I am a man and I’ve just put it together. A female bodied man I guess whatever that means. But I think the narrative below is worth reading, as is the rant about the state of the modern man)
When I was 15, I wrote my first ever good short story. I did it as a writing exercise — I’d decided that I really liked writing and I was going to do it somewhat seriously. Everyone knows that in writing this story I also got my other pseudonym, “Snipergirl” from the incredibly cool Hallowe’en outfit a caller into the radio had had (“I went as Snipergirl!” she said). But I haven’t really talked about the story itself.
It was kind of an awful time for my family in that basically everyone had decided to self-destruct. In the background, I’d discovered that I was into girls. Really into girls. And I was just recovering from being incredibly depressed while being at an all-girls school where everyone was paranoid about “the gays”. Oh yes, and one of my friends had outed me a year previous. For such an awful time it might be surprising but there were some pretty hilarious times too.
I had started sneaking into my dad’s wardrobe and putting on shirts and ties and pants. Believe me when I say I make a pretty cute guy. I do. It would make me feel simultaneously scared and excited (in a non sexual way). One of my first memories is of walking next to my dad when I was 3, convinced that I was going to grow up to be a man just like him.
I idolised my father as a child. I did not realise that he had been thwarted in his desire for a “perfect son” by my brother having autism. So luckily for me I guess I got to absorb all the lessons a father gives a son. Like how to match a tie and a shirt? Or that real men can cook?
But moving countries and puberty changes everything. My dad got really weird and my family self-destructed. It’s no wonder that so many stories are written about the end of puberty I guess. Just think of Peter Pan.
So Snipergirl is about a girl(?) who sneaks into her father’s wardrobe and puts on his suit furtively while her dad and brother are having a physical fight downstairs. I did not realise what a hell I was living in until I left. Still, it could have been worse. I was not sexually abused or raped. My parents were crazy but our home environment and my parents could have been much worse. I could have had broken bones and bruises. I could have been someone without the means to get friends or help. I could have not been smart and focused enough to get into medical school and escape.
I came out as being into girls at the end of high school too. My parents didn’t accept it for years. Now they do. But I have never identified as a lesbian. Bisexual woman? It does not feel honest. But a mostly-straight man does. It feels unbelievably honest. I finally recognise the person in the mirror.
I am a man. A mostly straight man. An effeminate, silly camp man. A man who isn’t afraid to wear pink and give out manly hugs. A man who is full of personal strength and some personal weakness. An honest and warm man with integrity. A man who is in touch with his feminine side. A man who is strong and supportive. A man who rides a motorbike and plays guitar and sometimes wears flannel and watched rugby at the pub the other day. A man who paints and likes flowers and writes poetry.
In other words I am incredibly comfortable with myself and my manhood.
I do not need hormones or surgery or to be born XY with a huge cock for that. (I am more than satisfied with my ability to pleasure hot girls in bed, thanks)
What does it mean to be a man? Good question. Other than the obvious (gender identity), for me it means being an adult man and not a man-child. What does it mean to be an adult? It means being someone who takes responsibility for my actions. That’s about it. It’s possible to be a responsible adult who plays with Lego and jokes around and sometimes takes a sick day and sometimes needs other people. Being a man doesn’t necessitate being a mountain man living in a log cabin (though, the thought is appealing).
So I guess it is an ongoing disappointment to see that my age peers have a significant minority of man-children. People who define their sense of self by whether or not they are “banging hot chicks”. Or like the “men” who once did a furniture removal for me, base their sense of self on making fun of a poor disabled woman saying “would you root that”. Abusive men. Needy men. Men who use their position of power to lie and cheat. Men who refuse to have understanding of those who are less fortunate than they are and instead whinge about how tough they have it because no-one realises what a “nice guy” they are. Entitled men. Broken men.
I don’t know what the solution is. The majority of 30 year old men are not like this. I am surrounded by awesome, inspiring, supportive men. Some of them have mental health issues. They are not perfect. They have flaws. But they are good men.
Having grown up with the experience of a woman’s life I can say that women outside of family structures support each other and define a supportive identity for each other in a way that men have only relatively recently started to do. Women struggled a lot — and much more than the modern man — until they banded together and started helping each other.
I started the week wondering what it is to be a man and it turned out that I was lucky enough to have had positive role models in my family and around me. And I still struggled. I struggled with being a needy man and a “nice guy” in my late teens and the very very start of my twenties (until women kicked my ass and I was forced to grow up). Many of my male friends went through similar experiences. Almost all of them got over it, as I did, fairly early on. But a few slipped through the cracks and they are the “lost boys”. The guys blaming women and feminism and other men and racial minorities for their problems. Looking online, convinced that spending thousands of dollars learning the “art of seduction” will cure the deep, horrible black void within them.
It saddens me immensely. It is a major problem. Some of these people are the rapists and abusive partners and parents that cause so much darkness around them. That perpetuate the problem where young people — male and female — grow up exposed to violence and abuse and neglect and inappropriate relationship models.
There is a reason that children do better in a single (non-abusive) parent family than with two parents of whom one is abusive or unsupportive.
It is a problem that is too big for me to really cover or contemplate fully right now. But I am myself and I am free and happy and complete. I am myself and I glow as bright as the sun on a summer’s day.
Deutschy, moving zug since 1804 for great justice.
Look around you: IIMS.
Imagine yourself on a beautiful beach: IIMS.
The lighthouse is actually a panopticon and its eye is staring straight at you: IIMS.
Think deeply about meadows: IIMS.
Now you are sinking deeper and deeper into the ocean: IIMS.
Underneath the ocean is a submarine: IIMS.
Also Cthulhu: IIMS.
Cthulhu is w͙̗̜͔̹̤ͯͬ̆͋͞a̷̫̖̖̬̰̞̖ͧͬ̊t̴̀̒c̨͕͖h̜͖̃́̓͂̅i̯̒n̹̰̳̜̿̈ͨ̌ͪg̯̞͙͕ ̝̭̳̩̂̈́ͥͫ͂͘y͖͎̥̝̋̑ͣ̆o̫͖̤̲̲͎̤ͨu̮͍̲̱ͬͪͩ̑͂ and may or may not be putting in an I͍͔̝͉̭̳͖͊ͧͨ͆͛̐̏I̛͚͚̳͓͓̗̝ͪͫ̓ͩ͊̆͆͠M̸̥̈́̑̀Sͩ̐̽ͪ͏̘̲̠̟: IIMS.
As the demonic effigy takes over your subconscious mind you slowly sink into the utter relaxation of IIMS.
Want to show your support for IIMSing every day? Why, this t-shirt is probably for you!
The #YOLO generation will #IIMS because #TGIF and #LMAO!
This lovely piece of apparel features the cardinal rules of IIMS:
- There is only one real way to deal with disputes: IIMS.
- Intern leaving the ward to urinate: IIMS.
- Received IIMS: IIMS.
- Forgot to put in an IIMS: IIMS.
- Did an IIMS: IIMS.
- Not sure whether to IIMS or not? IIMS.
- No-one did an IIMS: IIMS.
- Empty beds: IIMS.
- Hospital is full: IIMS.
- IIMS is full of IIMS: IIMS.
- Busy doing actual work: IIMS.