My jacket hangs on the back of my task chair. It smells like I used to smell; like a guy, like a friend. Like someone whose strength I sorely miss.
At first I was put-off and was going to wash it, but now it’s a comfort to me. I don’t know what that means. It’s probably just nostalgia.
I’m busier than I’ve ever been – which is a good thing.
I’m enthusiastic about nothing in particular and my emotions blend and run, unspecific to any single person, place, or thing. I’m told this is normal.
Guys generally won’t talk to me or are really nice to me – and there’s no obvious reason why.
It’s a playlist.
wilco – ashes of american flags – yankee hotel foxtrot
wilco – heavy metal drummer – yankee hotel foxtrot
say hi – the twenty-second century – ferocious mopes
morcheeba – small town – who can you trust?
beck – earthquake weather – guero
the strokes – razorblade – first impressions of earth
deadmau5 and kaskade – i remember – random album title
pink floyd – have a cigar – wish you were here
I sobbed silently over a scone wrapper on Leia’s kitchen table, the day after her dinner party. Her sister found me that way.
“How are you doing?”
“…Okay… I was just getting ready to leave.”
I excused myself. She wished me luck. I set out on a walk of shame so epic that I had to buy sunglasses and froyo. I have got to stop traveling without makeup.
I guess a lot of girl scientists cry about their research.
I’m still not used to it.
I’m not used to a lot of things – women are so easygoing around one another, it’s absurd. Form-fitting clothes break my stride. Shaving reveals scars on my legs from 20 years ago, and a nasty varicose vein from that time I played The Sims 2 for 27 hours straight.
I want to get upset about that. Transition is making me look younger, but I don’t feel younger. I worry about every blemish, all of my virilized features.
I remind myself that I’m lucky to even be a woman.