Yesterday I wrote a lot. I erased it. I wrote again, erased again. Erased, erased. I deleted the whole file eventually… made some checklists. Walked to the store for some groceries; I think pop tarts look good on me.
I walked and chose to forget, almost everything, except some things I enjoy. Convinced myself that seriousness is for losers. I wish I could depend on this feeling.
Because I woke up this morning with tears in my eyes. I hate that.
So I showered and cleaned myself and chose to forget, again. Apparently it’s an iterative thing.
I wish I could have slept, but it seems worthwhile in my crisp shirt and comfy thrift store skirt.
Also, the hardware on my face draws my attention away from my facial hair, because I’m the only one who cares about my facial hair.
I told the piercer I’ve had worse.
I sit in my room. It’s a nice room but a bit dusty, and I’m allergic to dust. So I’ve been struggling to breathe since I moved here.
My trans friend sleeps across the room, on the small mattress we found on the street. She’s been transitioning for 10 years, though she’s much younger than I am. She used to update her video blog. She’s always telling me to get some real problems. Every day we wake up head-to-toe in that tiny bed. Would we have it any other way?
She insists she isn’t my girlfriend. She doesn’t like to be touched. I remember what that was like.
We share food, share our lives. Thick as thieves, I wear the ring her boyfriend gave her.
And something interesting has happened. She walked the path I started upon, took it to the extreme. Gave herself nothing and no one to lose, but it ends nowhere. So I found something to care about. It’s obvious. It’s inevitable. As sure as I would die without her, I need to complete my science work. It’s not a question of discrimination or profit, I need to be what I’ve become.