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
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:
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:
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:
It has become clear that there is only one real way to deal with disputes in the Hospital:
What is an “IIMS” you may ask. How dare you ask. That’s definitely worthy of an IIMS. And after that IIMS, there is only one way to respond. With an IIMS.
Patient bed move: IIMS.
Intern leaving the ward to urinate: IIMS (doctors must always be in acute rental feulire)
Doctor starts giggling: IIMS.
Doctor does an IIMS: IIMS.
Patient is on Lisoprolol: IIMS.
Patient is in bed: IIMS.
Patient is not in bed: IIMS.
Cats sleeping on a bed: IIMS.
Cat doesn’t sleep on dying patient in hospice: IIMS.
Doctor makes a joke with a patient: IIMS.
Patient has uneventful recovery in hospital: IIMS.
Nurse and doctor are friends: Definite IIMS.
Received IIMS: IIMS.
Forgot to put in an IIMS: IIMS.
Did an IIMS: IIMS.
Making fun of the intern: IIMS.
Nurse is a catte: IIMS.
Patient’s family thanks the treating team: IIMS.
Staff members are not using the broom closet for reproductive sessions: IIMS.
Doctor’s room doesn’t have spare physiotherapy equipment and nursing office in it: IIMS.
Intern thinks “catheters are piss easy”: IIMS.
Thinking aloud: IIMS.
Something is done for the patient: IIMS.
Nothing is done for the patient: IIMS.
Thinking about doing something for the patient? IIMS.
Patient decides to put in an IIMS: IIMS.
Empty beds: IIMS.
All the beds are full of patients: IIMS.
Patient is still in hospital: IIMS the patient.
Recursive Möbius MetapseudoIIMS: IIMS.
Not sure whether to IIMS or not? IIMS.
No-one did an IIMS: IIMS.
Busy doing actual work: IIMS.
No-one is at a tea break, teaching, department meeting, multidisciplinary meeting, IIMS committee meeting, IIMS response department chapter branch masonic baptism or taking a dump: IIMS.
Patient got their Lisoprolol: IIMS.
Patient is on Neurofen: IIMS.
Patient enjoyed a hospital meal: IIMS.
Patient is stealing hospital supplies that no-one else wanted anyway: IIMS.
Patient has nine lives because patient is actually a catte: IIMS.
Doctors love to IIMS: IIMS.
Nurses love to IIMS: IIMS.
IIMS committee department response chapter branch masonic baptism of fire principle IIMS responded to by an IIMS in the appropriate fashion: IIMS.
HOW DO I IIMS: IIMS.
Even those who know how to LADIES do know how to IIMS and those who may CATS may also IIMS.
There is no limit to IIMS. IIMS everything.
IIMS is the very foundation of the hospital system.
IIMS is the major employment of administrative staff.
IIMS crashed the IIMS system due to overwhelmingly IIMS of the IIMS and it got IIMS.
Someone suspected IIMS of being a fundamental force of nature and that was shown to be IIMS.
Everyone was inseparable from their IIMS. When severed, their soul fragmented into multiple metapneumocysticosilicoconiosisIIMS.
The heavens trembled and the only people safe from IIMS were a close-knit group of friends, all bound together by their shared secret IIMS.
The IIMS emerged from the bowels of the patients and the lightnings of the platelet machine that featured a prominently IIMS.
It was given form by the earths of wardsmen standing guard over the patient beds in the lifts of the hospital, replete with nurse-cattes, and IIMS was found to be the words of IIMS.
A CEO was Abborted within the broom closet in which the elderly IIMS were sequestered.
The masonic IIMS committee worshipped the gods that were both IIMS and not of IIMS but somehow were also IIMS.
And lo, there was IIMS, and there was nothing that the faithful band of travellers could protect the patients from.
And the IIMS ravaged the land with legs made of IIMS and scuttled amongst the bodies of the IIMS.
Piles of IIMS like a wasteland rose throughout the land and alas the end was nigh.
Infinite multiplication of the IIMS that had called forth IIMS from the void had gathered like bacteroides within a necrotic tumour and, lo, the IIMS was one with IIMS and all that had IIMSed the IIMS.
A shudder as the world dissolved amongst a sea of infinitely IIMS IIMS and the words floated into the necrotic soul of the platelet machine closet and the masons built an edifice that was only of IIMS.
The lighthouse called the IIMS forth and all