Without a care in the world

This morning a terroist attack rocked London. And I la di da’d around all afternoon on public transit, not a care in the world, shopping. I bought pricey honey-carmel scented soap and candy bath melts. One Roman Dirge baby T (fat girl in skintight T alert!), three panties, and two cute t shirts from Old Navy. And that was about it. Then I split a 6 pack with a friend because I promised I would buy her beers. And that was my day, it was lovely. If I got major artist fees I would shop every day.

I’m not feeling the hot flashes as much, maybe that part of T is over. People ask me if I am going to keep taking it. I would have to say, no, not unless something really happens to change how I think of myself in the world. I’m pretty comfortable in this wacky gender called Butch Dyke. I think it’s a place I want to keep living in for a while.

In fact, I almost feel more girly after having tried T. It’s hard to explain. I will mine my daily thoughts for a way to explain it. I do know that the other day I was shaving my legs (I haven’t done that in about six or seven years) and I thought “This is not a manly thing to be doing.” Same with wearing the Dorothy’s-Ruby-Slippers nail polish. And buying a T shirt that says “I am a little fairy princess.”

I’m just a 21st century gender terrorist.

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