Entitled Opinion

They say, *”Opinions are like assholes – everybody has one.” Allow me to spell this out correctly for you. Some people have a rotten colon and I’m tired of smelling it. (Colon is not cologne – one generally smells nice and spell check doesn’t save you from everything). Opinion is a stance or judgement based on perspective. A belief not necessarily based on fact. What may be true from your perspective is not always true to everyone else. While we are entitled to our beliefs, we need to be open to the perspectives and experiences of others. Now, that being said, I come across a lot of entitled assholes who have the privilege of completely ignoring the other side, while saying “We should respect other opinions.” This works when it comes from both sides. Unfortunately, a lot of these rotten colon ideas are often not well thought out (if at all) and are often people just following what their grandpa believes or what authority tells them. They will literally use the phrase to argue when it really isn’t an argument. It simply says, “I like the way I live and don’t want to hear you say that my statement is wrong.” Guess what? Being wrong or told you are wrong is NOT bullying or harassment. There are facts as well as fiction. You can believe in the great flood or that it is bad luck to cut your nails on Sunday all you want. It doesn’t make it real. I can also believe that cops are assholes simply because that is my experience with most of them. Doesn’t mean every cop is or that they are assholes to everybody, but if you get hurt most times you interact with something, it will affect how you walk around it in the future. Opinion is borne out of perspective. If you aren’t basing this out of research, listening to various sides of the issue at hand or are picking your stance like you pick an Instagram filter, you may be contributing to a serious problem. Especially if it affects your attitudes towards the rights and or feelings of others, or how you vote.

As tempting as it is to talk about how shitty the US election was this year, I can’t help but talk about it’s effect on anybody who isn’t a white, cis-gendered, able-bodied, straight male. Calm the fuck down – this post is NOT an attack on you. It is talking about how the social climate has changed and attacks everybody BUT you. Therefore, it is NOT ABOUT YOU

For those who relate to this, know that your fear is valid but also know that many are with you in this. Know that there are likely more people taking this stance than those who are not. As tiring as it may be for many of us, we need to stick together and resist this however possible. Build each other up, organize and KEEP FIGHTING. For you allies, I hope you can become accomplices like many did at Standing Rock – I appreciate the warrior in you.  Be willing to get arrested, sprayed or beaten right long side us if you think you are truly no better than us and care about our future and the future of our children. Educate yourselves as much as possible. That goes for EVERYBODY, myself included. Change is certainly here and more is coming. Let’s make it a positive one for generations to come. This will not be easy but it is surely worth something.

*Not everyone is born with an asshole. Be thankful.



So I notice this funny thing. It happens at least once a year and I think I’m starting to get used to it. As many of you followers know, I have a tendency to be somewhat bold and unapologetic in my rants and storytelling. It was quite the long and clumsy process to get where I am now and I have lost some people on the way. The thing? People seeing my transparency as a cover for something sinister. Yeah. For real.

Sooooo excuse me while I lay some shit out.

I can totally see that. I can. I have tried to be vegan for two years and came off as a self-righteous prick about it at times. Sorry bout that. I actually give a shit about living beings. I also do a lot of public speaking in institutions such as the justice department, charity events, human rights awards ceremonies, LGBTQ rallies and conferences etc. Then I say horrible oppressive shit in jest to close friends because sometimes I need to laugh at the sheer idiocy in this world. MY ACTIONS DO NOT MATCH MY JOKES. I also do not say these things in public or to those who do not know my character or true nature. Why? Because I want people to feel safe around me. Because I give a shit about all living beings. Perhaps that sounds like some predatory shit. Y’know what? Maybe it is. Maybe I want to rope you in and have tea with you. Maybe I actually like you so far and want to shoot the shit and have deep conversation. Maybe I want you to know that if shit is hitting the fan in your life, that you can talk my ear off or have a dude walk you home when there is a need for one.

I have major trust issues. Sounds odd because I won’t hold back telling the cab driver that I was raped in a cab once, or the new cashier that I have a drinking problem. I use transparency to filter through people because I don’t trust most people, but I trust my gut and what I can share with whom. I push myself to say what I truly feel and what needs to be said because I have a mom who shuts me down when I share strong feelings, good or bad – excitement and passion was never actually encouraged if it was entirely my own. My stepdad was great when it came to these things, and he turned out to be far from trustworthy. As a result, my ridiculously sensitive nature turned me into a person who is at times over-reactive or seemingly cold. I question my mental state surrounding this on the daily. Am I a sociopath? I’m not smart or smooth enough to be a psychopath. Sometimes I am convinced that I don’t care about anyone but me because I’m a selfish addict and can’t cry when I probably should. Then I see someone being literally stepped on in the street, having a heart attack,  an abandoned baby bird, a domestic dispute etc. and have no choice but to intervene. And nah, I don’t live for the applause on that shit. I don’t need something with my name on it saying I donated to starving kids in Africa or that I gave a guy a sandwich today. I just do it. I encourage you to do the same and see how long you can keep that to yourself.

I could rant about being black and queer etc. and how that also contributes to my bitterness and trust issues, but the bottom line here is, I have admitted more fault in this blog alone and straight up tell people my flaws before they get close. Some call it being brave while others call it a cover up. Honestly the only thing I cover up these days are my tits and even those are all over the internet. I was doing this to free myself, initially (not the tits part, the nofilter/shameless/open book part). Now I’m just bitter with society in general and would like to laugh more. Being embarrassed or ashamed on top of insecure and angry is just too much. So here I am, as you see me. Imperfect and open to learning. I will apologize if I hurt someone with my words or actions, but not for being an open book, not for being kind, not for being myself or even disliked. I don’t need you to like me. I am FINALLY starting to like me and the people who gravitate towards that are worth their weight in cruelty-free diamonds (nobody gives a shit about gold anymore).

Much love/xoxo/no-romo/cake/unicorns, glitter and shit ❤

In Fear of Happiness

It’s been a while and long story short, this therapist is lazy and straight up sucks. Believe me when I say I need to shop for a new one. Not only does he cut our sessions short but he doesn’t even say my name when calling me from the waiting room, hardly talks at all, is condescending as fuck and shitty at hiding the fact that he is simply not qualified or experienced enough to handle my case. Icing on the cake, he’s kinda creepy and I hate his hair.

On another note, I’m finally not living with Mom. In the last week of May, she told me I need to be out of her house by July 1st whether I had a place to go or not and so I should go get a job. Yeah. Like I’ll just go grab a second job tomorrow and magically be paid first and lasts rent…for the place I had yet to find. So I decided instead of panicking about it, I’d get excited to couch hop and go camping around, since we have so many greenspaces and trails here in the Halifax area. Unfortunately I got struck with too many sicknesses to do much of anything. Luckily, not only do I now have a room with some awesome friends and happen to be ahead on rent, but one lovely lady has been an open door and feeding/nursing me at her apartment which is very close to my new place…and of course this whole interaction is a whole other story.

Sooo  I’ve done it again. I met a sweet girl and it feels as though we could be perfect together. We’ve been perfect together. And I’m terrified of it but don’t want to stop what we’re doing. What are we doing? I haven’t blogged because of honeymoon phase and well, summer things, but here’s another thing: she’s not a poly person. Fuck. I currently have 2 other people I’ve been “dating,” and casual fwb’s that are basically scratching their heads at this situation. She and I have talked about this twice, after giving each other time to process and through much thorough thought (you can hate me for that sentence – it’s cool), it turns out that she needs monogamy in the long term. I simply pointed out that I’m really not sure if I can do that, even though at this moment in time, it sounds like a cake walk because I love being with her and love everything about her so much. However, last night was the second time discussing this and I had a tension headache beginning as I was going to bed and just woke up with an even bigger one. It’s 5:30 am and I can’t sleep with this pain in my neck or next to her at the moment. Why? Because I’m in no way, shape or form, willing to part with her and the thought of that possibly being necessary is actually making my head pound and my stomach churn. I’m not seeking anyone else, I had been talking to/seeing someone around the same time she and I started dating, and I’ve been attached to another long distance partner for months before even meeting this girl. She’s not ignorant. She knows what polyamory is, why it exists and the many philosophies behind it and varying ways of practice. Hell, she could probably lecture ME on it, but she is one who has known herself for a long time and cannot compromise. The question is, can I? I don’t feel cornered, I’m never on eggshells around her, in fact I’ve let my guard down. Probably completely. She’s met three alters, D (the usual worst) actually likes her, which is somewhat disconcerting but I’ll take it for now. The dog actually listens to her, and Flip, well…he’s just Flip. She handles them so well and it doesn’t even faze her. Because of her, I’m not even embarrassed about it anymore. I transitioned at my friends’ wedding and was so happy to have her there. She says I do amazing things for her but I have a hard time coming up with reasons anyone would want to stay with me. She apparently does, and I feel her sincerity so I have to simply trust. Today I meet her mom. Wish me luck.

Doubting Trauma


Ok. So I was asking for it. Yep, the reason we use trigger warnings. Depending on the theme of the event or the audience involved, we may be inclined to use “content warnings.” I wasn’t asking to be traumatized, but honestly,  I often have an issue with the application of these warnings. Mostly because I find it to be an overused trend in academia, and can label things that are generally not a trigger for anyone but assholes. I was once told to TW for “racially charged language” in a slur-free poem I wrote about chicken. I did however mention being black *eye-roll.* I knew this wasn’t always how they played out, but I didn’t really get it. Now I get it. Not unlike an allergy warning, it would be nice to know what contents could possibly cause a scene or encourage me to check out for the next 24 hours, before I watch, hear or read something.


TW/CW: Sexual assault and mention of rape.


Recently, while watching porn (I know it’s fucking horrible – I’m not claiming to be perfect) I heard a phrase that made me drop my phone and I almost threw up (yes I said phone. Never touch my cell phone). Half my vision was black, I saw stars and had a nasty taste in my mouth. The scenario was something I had sought out for years, but something hit home in this particular scene. Porn only comes with trigger warnings in the form of tags. Sometimes. Tags of things you want. Sometimes. Sometimes traumatized people are turned on by things that resemble the event that traumatized them. Turns out I have things to remember, but most of me wants to deny it. Strange thing is, I wasn’t always this reactive. I thought I was over this ages ago. Now it’s biting me in the ass. I can’t say why, but how is another story. I have vivid flashbacks as a reaction to very simple things, like a phrase, tone of voice, a song, tuxedos…my list for flashbacks is pretty well known to me. But I get this other thing and I don’t know what to call it. It’s this strange twitch or spasm that starts with this pressure at the back of my upper jaw – as if I were about to yawn, then turns into a shiver down my spine and muscle contractions in my neck and face. They happen when I’m hit with a memory, stressed, confused for no apparent reason or sometimes at what seems to be random. For the longest time I thought it was nothing more than a twitch until it happened in front of my mom one day and I froze. My speech was slow and very slurred. I was struggling to speak and suddenly exhausted. And of course everyone’s favorite reaction is transitioning to an alternate personality. I zone out, or seem to pass out before I check out or transition, according to witnesses.

A few weeks ago I had a some rape scenarios in my dreams. Each time I woke up still feeling the burn from my pants being ripped off and the sting of being slapped. Sometimes I wake up gagging on things that aren’t there or feel like my tonsils are bruised and this was also one of those times. Then of course I made the mistake of sharing this (not nearly as detailed) with someone directly, out of trust and at the wrong time. Whoops. Of course with being emotionally overwhelmed, reactive and conflicted, I checked out and many of my friends ended up talking to Flip that night (observer alter?) on Facebook messenger. The next morning, still feeling gutted by the conflict of the night before, as well as, yes, more shitty dreams, I believe a little one came out. I figure this because of what I came back to. My dog was on my bed (never happens) and I had a blanket making a sling between my legs – something I did when I was between 3 and 6. I was in fetal position with my genitals and backside covered, with the bedroom door in full view. Still feeling protective of my back and too exhausted/fearful to feed or even relieve myself, I went through a list of people to talk to. Then I came to a realization: everyone is tired of my shit. I can’t blame them. I have been a lot of talk about help and very little, to no action regarding my mental health for a few years. Do I have reasons for this? Absolutely! Does that make the conversation lighter? Hell no! And so, it leaves me with simply being aware, logging as many events as I can remember and taking a moment away from triggering situations instead of trying to “tough it out” only to make excuses later. That morning I tried using visualizations, tried soft music, some grounding exercises I learned in rehab, tried replaying happy memories and videos linked to positive experiences. I spent hours home alone, in my room, trying to do something other than be where I was, but my heart just kept racing in spite of fatigue. I called the Mental Heath Mobile Crisis Team. I figured this counted as some form of crisis as I was panicked, unpredictable, at a loss and had no one to talk to. I hoped I would transition on the phone. But I was let go. They had nothing to say to me. I guess it wasn’t a crisis?

I think one of the more irritating things about all of this, is in spite of all these events and more, recorded by myself and others, I doubt my symptoms and I still doubt my own trauma and experiences. I’ve been constantly telling myself that I’m over it or that it’s a non-issue. Telling myself to suck it up or brush that shit off. I’ve turned off my feelings for months at a time each year, pretending to have them when it could benefit me, then being overwhelmed and panicked when feelings return. I fail to recognize, time and time again, how I have been influenced by multiple, toxic intimate relationships. I even to this day, wonder if I encouraged my step-father to touch me the way he did and why I make such a big deal of it. “It was practically nothing,” says that voice in my head. It was practically nothing, but it was betrayal by the one closest to and most trusted by me. Since betrayal feeds rage, I’ve been keeping people at quite the distance these days. I may be somewhat transparent, but that’s just because I care less about what people think and it makes for a great filter. Being that close to someone is frightening for me, but I still need to be social and care about me.

I somehow continue to grow with this. Like trees grow around  chain-link fencing and weeds rise through concrete. Contorting, winding and pushing through rock and metal in on the surface while the roots continue to seek nourishment. Imperfect and facing the sun, I seek answers while making an effort to care for myself. Sometimes that care is spilling my guts into the universe, or simply looking my imperfect self in the face and saying, “I love you. We got this.”

Not Trans Enough

This might, believe it or not, be one of the scariest confessions I have to make right now. Perhaps that’s why I feel the need to post it. Trans folk, take this moment to grab a buddy, a fuzzy blanket, cat, blunt, beer or comfort device/support person of your choosing.

CW: I don’t know yet :/  Misgendering, outdated language, loose use of binary terms based on knowledge at the time… um, probably generally uncomfortable shit. Look at the title. I will say that this is a confession of self-doubt, doubting others and how that came to change.





14 years ago, I discovered a wikipedia article that changed my life. But first:

I was 13 and hating life as many of us do at that time. It was awkward and I was still pursuing a career in film (when we still had a film industry here and shit was good) which meant as a black “female” I was expected to have my hair permanently straightened. It also meant I was a girl and should look like one – no questions asked. But I never went for the kind of clothes people dressed me in. Not even close. I would gravitate to cargo and painter pants, hoodies or grey sweaters, sporty clothing and the like. I was fighting with my mother every time we went shopping. I LOATHED shopping with my mom. I remember being forced to wear dresses on outings and getting reprimanded for wanting to compromise. But I also remember that first pair of jeans that looked like “boys” jeans. They felt like they belonged. Like they presented me the way I wanted to present myself. And damn was that liberating. I just had to excuse the fact that my underwear band said “Sporty Girl” and the tapered cut of my t-shirts. I fought so hard to get the clothes I wanted, even though I was constantly harassed at school and even shoved and kicked around. I didn’t care. It was closer to the me I wanted people to see. The hair? Well. That’s another story for another time, but it certainly didn’t quite belong either.

One night while I was at my friend’s place and surfing the web, I took it upon myself to look up “sex-change.” I was curious as to what that entailed, who did such things, was it a real thing and if so, how real? But then I read about “Female to Male Transgender.”  I had honestly thought “Men got sex changes into women,” and that was that. I had never thought it was offered for all bodies. It never made the media in my world. As I read through the article, my friend and his brother magically appeared over my shoulder. It turns out that I was reading aloud in confused wonder and amazement. Then I read again silently. It was me! I never had a name for it. I didn’t know what I was. Hell, I was a barking dog until I was 6 or so, so like, maybe there was a boy inside me or something. I had no idea. All I knew is I found a description that matched a feeling I didn’t think anyone else felt. But remember, I was still fighting my mom about what I could wear.

Now this is the story all about how that happy shit went upside down.

I was 15 and in a Catholic school. No nuns. Just…all girls. In skirts. It was partially my choice, initially, to attend Sacred Heart School of Halifax. I had just come out as bisexual in my previous public school and was interrupted from suicide attempts. We figured, lets give private school a go and get away from the blatant homophobia and bullying. Nope. Being in such a gendered space – a  highly gendered space, was BEYOND uncomfortable. The best part was going to and from, because that blazer and tie felt great with “those jeans.” It was the affirmation I needed. Or so I thought. Approaching the school before class was when my stomach turned –  knowing it was mandatory for me to change into a skirt before the bells rang. Upset stomach every day, got old and fast.

I eventually left SHSH after grade 10. Not because I was uncomfortable. But because I failed classes…lol. It was a new public school that helped me finally, at age 17 decide that not only was I going to chop of my long locks, but come out to my mother as transgender. She accepted it, sort of. Pronouns came years later, but now she had every reason to “let me” wear what I want and do what I want with my hair, without harassment…sort of. At this point I was already out to my closest friends – one who was also at the time, though now distant, identifying as female to male trans. We’ll call them Barry.

Barry was never feminine, but rather neutral. More of a dapper, fanciful man who liked to be pretty. I appreciated his boldness and assertiveness. He never gave a shit about passing. I still think he occasionally dresses like sailor scouts and geisha’s, with no hormone treatments or surgery. He’ll just walk up to you, shake your hand and say, “Hi, I’m a BOY! Name’s Barry.” And continue on the conversation. Over the years this began to puzzle me. I was living on my own with a girlfriend and finally in an environment where everybody, including employers, used the proper pronouns and I felt like I was well on my way with packers and binders, as well as a foot in the local queer community. I thought, “Seriously dude. Make up your mind! If you want to be a guy, why don’t you transition?” But I never said this to him. Nobody questioned Barry. Not even me.

As I continued to attend GSA conferences, lectures and meet more and more from the trans community, I learned that not all people want surgery or hormone treatments and some did not consider themselves male or female. At that point some people still confused me and I must say I did not handle it well. What’s worse, is I thought that I did. I learned what non-binary was. I at first felt like that oh-so-convenient wikipedia article was no longer valid and I had to re-assess my gender identity all over again. Truth be told, I still question it here and there. The worst part, though, about all of this, is the fact that I had been really rude to people in the past.

I was dating  somebody who went back and forth from binary to non-binary pronouns, and dressed very femme. Felt it was his job to fuck with people’s perception of gender, would wear dresses, makeup, tights, heels etc. and then get butthurt when somebody continued to get his/their pronouns wrong. I thought to myself, “If you’re a trans dude, why not try to pass until you get hormones?” Could he seriously expect people to understand or get it right when his eyebrows are painted on and he’s wearing a chiffon dress?  I eventually got frustrated with this. I couldn’t understand. I started to say things that made him question what to wear, or how to present himself. I criticized him. A lot. In fact, so did one of our mutual non-binary friends, for reasons outside of gender identity, but still I was confused about my ex. I felt like somebody was actually going out of their way to be misunderstood so that more queer people would like them. They admitted to making a choice about their gender identity and this stung. I thought trans wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t my or many of my trans friends choices. Why choose to be oppressed? I thought I understood something I clearly couldn’t see.

Before I get into the here and now, I want to say that I am ashamed of my behavior in the past. While I did not understand and tried to, I was a huge jerk in my ignorance and for that I am sorry. To anybody who was negatively affected by my words, my ex who may be viewing this and any enbies who questioned their safety around me, I am deeply sorry. Nobody has the right to tell you how to be you in the world and just because I have a transgender experience, it does not mean I know how every trans person feels.

As I sit here right now, I can say I have learned a few things. First thing I need to mention is that I have passing privilege and that is not true for everyone. I did not always pass, I went through some shit to get here, but some of us don’t pass and may never pass. Passing is not what trans is about. I also, now find the binary rather unnecessary and am starting to see how it is inherently oppressive. While I agree that some people are comfortable in binary terms(like myself) and/or may fit the description society has laid out for that gender, we all have our own perception of gender. And why does gender matter to us so much? Does it have to? Yes, I still call myself ‘he/him’ just as I secretly did as a child, and to be honest, hormones have affected my feelings about myself and others. They have changed the way I experience anger and sadness, arousal, hunger and even the cold. Surgery is not going to make me any more of a “real man” than I am now. I hate that term. Hormones have made me more comfortable in my body, but I was just as much a man before them as I am now. I am trans enough and so is anybody who says they are trans. He/him pronouns and male identity just always seemed to fit for me somehow and I wish I knew how to explain that. But am I holding onto society’s version of “being a man”? Fuck no. I’m being my own man, and sometimes that STILL looks pretty fuckin queer.

Sorry some queers are asshats, but they too can change.

Much love xoxo/ ❤ / cake






Intake was the best I ever had, however, I think this is actually a straight up vent. Sorry/not sorry.

9 to 10 months into my testosterone injections, I was convinced that I had a sex addiction. I know the general model for addiction, so I used that as reason to consider it. It has been an on again/off again, nearly uncontrollable habit to jerk off, watch and collect excessive amounts of porn, throughout my life. Tshots put that habit literally on roids. I, even in my near shameless slutty pride, was beginning to not only embarrass myself, but was waking up in way too many places I wish I had never been. Sure, maybe that sounds pretty regular for a 20-something with a cute face and a drinking habit, but I felt compelled. The same way I feel compelled to spend my last dollars on booze and cry on my way to the liquor store. Yes. No joke, that shit happens. Lately, however, something made a HUGE shift.

Could have been a mental break, heartbreak, or both as they happened around the same time. Not exactly sure, as my days were blending or disappearing completely. My lover and one of my alters could talk shit out, but it seems like we can’t. Not really. Connection seems lost. I eventually felt better about us after a few chats and affirmations, but right now, I find it hard to be hopeful about anything but being a decent entertainer. Which is great in the moment, but to be honest, at the end of the night and when I wake, I am one sad son of a bitch. Not only has my sex drive made a sudden drop like never before, but I need constant distraction to avoid going to that “place.” The place where you feel like you were booted in the chest, occasionally can’t breathe and want to put holes through walls or maybe just spontaneously jump off a bridge…or cry on your cat or whatever. Oddly enough, I actually don’t want to fuck my way out of it, which in the past, was pretty much what I did. About a month ago, it made a 180.

So do we just blame it on the alcohol? Being this bitter and sad once I have no one to talk to? Losing my ridiculous sex drive all of a sudden? I hardly even crave drinks, smokes or food. Notice how food was last on that list? I want people. I want love in good friends, hugs, cuddles, safe embraces and friendly faces. Maybe it’s because I see them as my only secure reference points outside of cataloging my symptoms or lost time. I definitely feel like my good company is keeping me in one piece right now. Not saying I don’t have the good company – I actually do, but I want them more than anything. Actually, false. I want to sleep for near eternity or be with close friends…sleep until a friend shows up…do I know what I want?

I must say that I was very fortunate to have a decent social worker for my intake and initial interview. They brought their notes to a team to go over, and I plan on taking what ever avenues I can to get out of this hellhole. I will admit, there are times when I have mad pride in being unwell. This is NOT that time. I am thankful that my alters aren’t fucking shit up right now. I am thankful for still having a place to live and food to eat. I am thankful for the friends by my side (I have many, though I can admittedly feel lonely in a group of them). I can be thankful and grateful for many things, but it doesn’t make me better.


Today I go to a community mental health center to do intake. Y’know, that thing where they give you a questionnaire with scales of 1-5 and please circle: “Never, sometimes, often, always..” Then I’ll meet with a person to tell them that I was born into multiple intersections of society, just to get that out of the way, which usually results in a conversation about Borderline Personality Disorder. Yes, before I explain WHY I’m there in the first place. This has happened in intake and this has happened in an assessment for ADD, without reading my file but immediately belittling me for being a man with no facial hair and taking a sex history. BOOM! You have BPD! Now, I might be willing to accept that “diagnonsense” from a “the-rapist” (‘Girl-Interrupted’ references, relax) if somebody is willing to base that off of a psych examination and history, rather than the fact that I’m a black, queer, transgender person living in Nova Scotia and life is naturally a little harder for me. This shit makes me wonder how much these people are actually listening.

It becomes even more entertaining when you recognize the fact that you’ve been in these offices many times and can answer their next question before they ask it. You know the list. Your answer is the same as it was last year, it is on file, buuut they have to ask this again cause that’s how she goes. Then you need to be sure. You say you’re an alcoholic. Now you have to remember how much you drink and how often. “Hi, yeah, I drink enough that I can’t FUCKING REMEMBER!” Also, if you’re in your early 20’s they may excuse some of it. It’s fine. I realize they probably have reasons for me to prove that I am in fact bisexual and trans and not some rebellious, “oversexed” woman with an identity crisis…who drinks and does drugs…a lot. They could happen. “Maybe you’re just mad at men and want to take hormones so you don’t get hit on and can defend yourself.” Newsflash: I still get hit on and hormones don’t make you a martial arts master.

I never used to be scared going into these things because I like filling out shit I know the answers to. But I really, really, need the help and I am now aware of more flaws in this archaic, inherently violent, patriarchal system. It CAN HELP. I know it can help. But I fear putting emphasis in the wrong places or not emphasizing enough. I worry that I’ll have to sift through therapists for months until I find somebody who understands my obligatory politics, because without that, I run the risk of being told the world isn’t really such a bad place, not all men/white people/straight people etc. are so bad. I fear being told that things that I’ve done or that have happened to me are not possible. That certain illnesses aren’t real or valid. But I’m going anyway. People say I’m brave for correcting people on my pronouns, for the honesty in my poetry or blog posts. The truth is, I’m fucking done. I’m fucking done with the bullshit. I am up to my fucking eyes in bullshit and I can’t take it anymore. Tired of being misread, misrepresented, mistreated, under-treated, disrespected and taken for granted. The bravery, dear friends, is being horrified of the terrors this place has to offer and going in anyway.

Wish me me luck? Or tell me “Don’t give up”? Your choice.

Much love xo



Rant 2


Ever want to punch people just because? I’d say please don’t hate me for what I’m about to say, but fuck it. I still can’t get it right whether I’m actively trying to fix things or even being nice. I’m usually too nice and now I just don’t wanna be. Right now, I want to choke people. Yep. A nice, long, two-handed throat massage. Why does it always come down to choking? Not sure, but my mom has gone for my throat once or twice. Maybe it’s genetic. What’s worse is people will defend her in doing so. No provocation was needed. Just wasn’t feeding into the idea that she needs full control of me. Like slapping me in the face for not ironing a shirt before an exam (because I was wearing a sweater vest and blazer over it anyway) is somehow a-ok. Or shoving me and reaching for my throat for insisting that I grab a dog leash and keys before being kicked out of the house. Then she had the nerve to say she’s calling the cops for assault when I blocked her from grabbing my throat. I understand people have their frustrations and weak points. I’m in one. But I don’t feel the need to control people, I’m just tired of close friends turning out to be racists or just plain shitty. I already have trust issues. Nearly every time I get so close to someone it backfires in a big way. Blame me for being assaulted – acting as devil’s advocate when speaking on feminist topics as if it made them look smart. Newsflash: it makes you look like an MRA douchecanoe. Stop telling me how I feel about something, stop telling me what I want, stop blaming me for being mentally ill, stop pretending you care if all I am is a token to you. I refuse to be your black friend, your queer or trendy trans friend. I am a fuckin human being, friend. People like you should shit to get your teeth back. One of you might be reading this blog regularly but refused to talk to me for months. Do me a favor and shit or get off the pot.

There’s this funny misconception that my honesty is a pity party tactic or manipulation of sorts. The reality is, before I vented this stuff, suicide was always in the back of my mind. So thank you for your support, your hugs, your eyes and ears. I think I can still be a useful and valuable member of society and don’t wanna die. You may think or feel that I am chasing my tail, but many of you are helping. This isn’t pity party. This is a cry to be understood. I can’t sleep enough, I’m sore, cranky, broke, still wrestling with the thought of having another harmful addiction, walking on eggshells in my own living space, fighting dissociation and transitions/waking up places I didn’t plan on going to. Talking to good friends is not only heartwarming and validating, but it helps me keep track of lost time and recording what is real.

PS: Yes I am on a waiting list for a therapist. Yes my mom’s attitude has adjusted greatly since I was kicked out and returned home. By adjusted I mean she probably won’t be violent again. Wow. I’ve heard that before.

PPS: Thank you for being supportive at all.You know who you are.



Dick Privilege


So there’s this thing I’m noticing. Politically correct people and our beloved call-out/anti-opression culture buddies do this thing where they acknowledge their privilege before a speech about their struggle or someone else’s (should they choose to be so bold). So I thought that I, as a #selfmademan, aka man, aka transgender man because apparently we’re trying to scrap FTM or F2M, would like to take a moment to call out penis privilege.

Dear cismen,                                                                                                                                                       I feel it only responsible and respectful of me to tell you that I am aware of the fact that I’ve got you beat. I know society gives us the impression that because one is born with a penis, they are in fact a “real man”. This is simply not true. You are a man because you feel it right to call yourself a man. Regardless of your genital arrangement, you will come across a few people who will disagree with your decision (or parent’s decision) to do so. So I wasn’t born with the club. You may think that is a hardship, but the reality is, I actually have a dick. It’s a clit and it’s fucking huge thanks to testosterone, but smaller than the average peen. That’s fine. Size only matters to size queens and my collection of detachable dicks has made me one. That’s right. Tell me to go fuck myself and I will reply with a “thank you” because I can ACTUALLY do that, AND I’m a decent lay. This microdick of mine has gotten many ladies off. Small-dicked cisguys, please take note: there is hope for you if you stop listening to the haters and own that shit. However, I recognize that I am still slightly more privileged, as I can go from tiny dick to actual horse size. And guess what? Horse size is generally not as fun for either party as one may think, so let that dream go. My major point here is that I will never run into the size problem. Ever get your ass ripped by a guy that honestly should be a bottom? Baby you can take your pick with me and save the prolapsed anus for later. Perhaps you like that shit, but I already walk funny. Furthermore, my dick is easily sterilized on the the regular and doesn’t quit. I as well as anybody who isn’t put off by dicks without a body, can be fucked from a distance. Yep. I go on the road and leave my dick behind for her to play with in the shower, while I jerk off at the hotel and can still get sucked off. You see, it’s an extension. I can literally fuck all over the place at one time. Okay that’s a stretch – these people are actually fucking themselves with my possessions. I’m just getting cocky now. But I can jog and not worry about chafing, or get kicked in the boys and know that I have extra cushion in the form of a packer (artificial limp dick) to protect that minidick from bruising.  I suppose the most rewarding thing about this experience is as a regular drug user and alcoholic, I will NEVER HAVE WHISKY DICK! I have passed out balls deep, been slapped awake and proceeded to give’r. I can cum and keep going until she’s done, do every ludicrous, seemingly impossible position, fall on it, have big bears and BBW ride the shit out of it, and even attempt cock-pushups without ever bending or breaking it. I’m unbreakable and unstoppable. So if you cisdudes still think that “real men” are measured by their junk, I have a collection of dicks for you to suck.


That guy with the unsinkable penis. Pretty sure it floats too.

DID I Do That?

Deep breath, look ahead, left, right and what am I wearing? There’s someone in the room. “Are you ok? Please tell me what happened.”

Yes, I have been blackout drunk many times. MAAAANY, many times and for over a decade now. I’ve also been a high-functioning alcoholic. I do also recall people asking me if I was drunk when ____ happened, but I can’t remember what happened and insisted that I had no alcohol that day. Sounds ridiculous. You don’t remember acting strange for the duration of said strange and want to insist you weren’t drunk? Classic addict shit, right? That’s exactly what I thought.

Back in 8th grade, I was, like most of us, depressed and learning more about how much I’m lied to and that being yourself isn’t always the way to go – I mean, if you want people to actually be nice to you. I was “still a girl” and “too manly”, suicidal, addicted to cutting, obsessed and in love with my art teacher, had fear of becoming orphaned due to my mom’s illness, been experiencing sexual touching from my “ex-stepfather” and came out as bisexual for the first time. These were pre-blackout drunk days and I was losing chunks of memory. These were also days and nights that I started hallucinating, losing myself in daydreams and noticeably to myself and peers, withdrawing and suppressing as many feelings as I could. Then D happened.

Not talking about dicks, but since this character was formed in my head, the few people who have met him insist that he is one. Dragan, a tall standing, icy-eyed, adult, Russian male with few words and words that usually stab. He’s manipulative and calculated, could be mistaken for a cyborg with no human feelings at all and is quick to snap at ill-timed remarks or when the mood and laser-like focus is ruined. He would sooner lose his shit over coffee spilling on his pencil sketch than you uttering threats to him…as he listens to famous requiems. I however, would never recommend uttering threats to him.  Around that time in 8th grade was the first time he took over my body and he hasn’t left my head since. Fucking RIDICULOUS and unbelievable, right? Read on.

Fast forward to these past few weeks:                                                                                                     While at a friend’s place, magic mushrooms happened again – my fourth time in 8 months. Long story short, she not only met D, but a 5 year old pretending to be a dog and a teenage alter completely new to me named Flip. I don’t remember what any of them did, but was told and had much of it recorded. It had been 3 years since D showed up and I was at that time in rehab for alcoholism. This time he was very interested in the changes in my body since then. More importantly, he analyzed/creeped the living shit out of my friend and gave us some clues about his purpose. Flip was apparently one hell of a time. A complete dudebro and a little outdated, he constantly cracked jokes and kept everything light. If you didn’t know me very well, he could pass as me in a good mood or slightly drunk. He’s not going to stand out like Dragan or a small child or a dog. He’s “apparently normal”. He says it’s been 3 years since his last visit as well and that was pretty clear when he took a sip of an energy drink and was surprised by an exposed nerve on the right side of my mouth.

So here’s a note about my experience with this disorder:                                                                    I have yet to be diagnosed with any kind of dissociative disorder. I brought this up with a therapist when it first became apparent to me and she said, “Multiple Personalities? I don’t buy it. That’s only in question when there has been some major abuse as a small child and they separate themselves from that memory as a defense mechanism. But you aren’t here for trauma.” She was also the therapist who told me it was impossible for me to be having sex as young as I did. The former statement lead me to believe that I just had one helluva personality simply because I am an artist. Buuut D showed up many times since then. In fact, he had an affair with one of my girlfriends. I had to tell her I made it up and that the whole thing was fake as she was writing letters to him and somehow found a way to trigger me into this alter self. I have also become a complete animal many times. Not the kid pretending, but a straight up dog who might piss on your bedpost or get hit by a car. Last week removed all doubt. This week is opening some doors as Flip becomes more and more comfortable with sharing information.

I am seeking “help” and hoping it is just that. Hoping that getting to the root of this will help me in many other areas. I know I’m not well and I don’t pretend to be. I am simply bitter with the system and general attitude towards mental health. This post could have been far more colorful and fun to read, but I still find myself in this habit of trying to prove its validity.

Have fun in your Google searches 😉