Category: slice of life

Generic Life Stuff as I go about my days.

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And before you knew it, two seven months have passed by. I had no drafts or throwbacks to throw into the queue, so the silence lingered.

A bit has happened since then: we’ve moved to a bigger and better house, I received my vaccination (edit: and booster!), I saw folks I haven’t seen in the past year, saw my LDR girlfriend for the first time in about five years (long story, so that’ll be a separate post), I also reconnected with someone special (again, perhaps, a separate post), caught up with a dear old friend at a tiny birthday party… and the job has been the same, despite the promotion and raise that came with it.

I’ve been finally catching up on IDW’s Sonic the Hedgehog, and I can say– as someone that lived and breathed Archie Sonic (and SatAM, and Jaleel White’s VA career, and the games for someone who never owned a SEGA system) I’ve missed Sonic comics.

Sonic popping out of a manhole, saying Hedgehog. Noun. A burrowing animal.
Also, come on. I love hedgehogs.

Ah, yes, and this wasn’t just any move: I wasn’t moving out of my parent’s house thrice (so I had practice), nor was I moving alone and only had me to worry about.

It was a lot of frustrating moving parts. Packing all the fragile things. Figuring out which perishables to take. Attempting to organize, only for it to fall into chaos in the garage. Misplaced boxes. Packing the mugs. Wrestling the cats. Losing power cords. Dropping a heavy box of board games on your foot.

But, again, we did it. And we hired movers for the big stuff this time.

My initial response is to say that said move was the most exciting thing to happen to me so far this year.

And here is where I re-calibrate my definition of “excitement,” because, sure, moving and painting are always exciting, but it takes a backseat to how I feel about some important people in my life. Moving and painting just made me tired. What got my heart beating was how we had all interacted– sharing podcasts, listening to Daft Punk, accidentally coming across A Wonk and getting bopped upside the head for it (figuratively).

Granted, this was Stuff I Already Knew after living with them for two years prior. But in the context of expanding into a new space it was exciting nonetheless.

I am happy at home.

But I am also tired.

As I brushed upon earlier, work has been… the same. But also, the strain of working in a pandemic for almost two years has been felt for quite some time now. The workload has been punishing, the pay is ridiculous, and many have been moving on to other pastures.

And I hope to be one of them, soon.

Because despite my aforementioned promotion, things have been largely the same and I have stagnated. Which could possibly be overlooked if I liked my job more… and if the pay was better… and if that one coworker would stop pissing all of us off… if the environment wasn’t so toxic… if there was actual upward mobility…

And the fatigue of being in this pandemic, as well. The misinformation, the tempers, the Trumpers, the just existing, the covid scares, all of it. I’m too tired to even elaborate on this but IYKYK. And all I know is there’s a therapist appointment in my immediate future.

Because of that, mostly, I haven’t been writing. Or doing much else. There’s been quite a bit of Youtube and Blanket Nesting.

At least Animal Crossing: New Horizons finally has some new content. I’ll go chew on that.

Animal Crossing characters on a ship. The captain is in mid song, saying "cause when ya chew on yer ship swabbies say you're kinda strange"
I’ll say it again: chew on people.

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I was on vacation last week.

Before, I made plans: to fix things around the house we’ve been putting off, to play video games, to talk to people, and to write.

Before and during, I also focused on making my space feel more like "me." That included reorganizing, decluttering, and adding more art and figurines to my walls. And making my bed even softer. And finally obtaining a soundbar for my subpar television audio output. And– most importantly– making actual space on my brand new desk for longhand writing.

My vacation was spent fixing the back door and replacing and toilet seat and upgrading our showerhead and  making spacemakers for our countertops and stocking up on dinner food and figuring out how to jump in Spyro Reignited and having a blast with Goat Simulator and reaching level 125 in Ring Fit Adventure and

my writing area remained blank.

I also rested. I had the energy to cook dinner, so I did. I enjoyed movies like Coming 2 America until the late hours of the night.

My bullet journal was open, but remained blank.

I bought a Wacom Tablet and purchased the Affinity suite of photo editing software, because I missed doing that sort of thing. And it was high time I learned software other than Adobe. When I remembered to, I logged onto Discord and hopped around Twitch.

Three days into my vacation I realized I didn’t write anything at all for the 750Word challenge this month. I’m still on the Wall of Shame from my last attempt.

I also read the loveliest book, Honey Girl. It was so vibrant and poetic. "Are you there?" I’m  reminded of monsters, the magic of other lonely creatures, and the challenges of a world determined to crush said magic. (That much I should say, without spoilers.)

I had a magic moment of my own, but perhaps I’ll dream of it again.

I was very productive, and I made sure to have plenty of rest. Except for the matter of my blank canvas.

But, this was what I expected.

As my hours became filled with work, and house errands, and exhaustion from the former, I had less time and energy for the things I loved to do. That included writing.

And I’ve lost my knack on sliding in words into what little slivers of time I have. I dream of writing. I dream of good ideas. But I need to return to the habit of at least writing them down.

So.

I opened up 750words and mused, "suppose I’ll start here. I’ll write about my not-so-magical-but-productive vacation."

Little steps. 456 words out of 750, but it is a start.

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Throwback Thursday: Fri, 03 Oct 2014 15:00:55 on the VerboseTerse instance, yadda yadda yadda. Notable that this was for the write31days challenge for that year; I decided to write about my non-binary gender experience. This is from the third day, about my doubts before coming out.


So far, this is the hardest entry I have to write.


I am going to be 30 years old relatively soon. And only two years ago I’ve come to terms with not being a binary gender. Late to the party– better late than never– but I still feel some type of way about it.


Fuck High School


My initial, knee-jerk response to “What the hell took you so long?!” is to cite the lack of information and representation I was able to get my hands on. I keep saying that… but I have a print out of this page still and it is largely unchanged. So I can only use that excuse for so long.


5% was bigoted asshattery.


My high school was a tiny dangerously-close-to-fern thing in the middle of central Not Progressive Ha Ha. We ran out the only decent Spanish teacher because he was a city slicker. Out of the grand total of two gay young men we managed to run off one of them within a month. And of course, kids being kids with slurs in their mouth.


You do the math.


85% was just pure denial.


Some of it can be attributed to my poor grasp of gender, even with the info laid out to me. The gist was I was still working off the binary system with the faintest understanding of transgender (and that’s being kind). Furthermore, I was still under the illusion that bi/pansexuality was merely a phase and I was going to grow out of it eventually. Nevermind that to this day I associate a Sugarcult song with my First Serious Crush on A Girl. And my favorite movie wa, and still is, But I’m A Cheerleader.


clea duvall holding a train of paper girls
FORESHADOWING THAT WAS 1/2 OR 2/3’D RIGHT


10% was fear.


Like any teen, I wanted to fit in. Just a smidge. Just enough. I also didn’t want (what I felt was at the time) the eventual heartbreak and isolation if I pursued these thoughts. So I forced contentment of something I was much more familiar with- unrequited love and alienation on my terms (and the first term was “that weird kid that walked in the rain and kicked trees”- conveniently not too alienating, just weird as fuck).


This fear was also borne of not letting down my parents. They were cool with me through my Wiccan phase and was alright with me taking my best friend to the prom, but the possibility that I was probably trans squicked my father, at least.


Moral of this story is being a teen sucked and trust no one that says otherwise.



No Longer a Teenage Dirtbag


But enough about that. Fast forward to a) finally dealing with my pansexuality and came out in college b) just ended a relationship that was another failed statistic in the mono/poly configuration, 1.5 years post college (I was the poly). So, in one of my brooding moments, I got to sitting around thinking about my gender.


Like, really think about it. In a space where I wouldn’t get shit for not shaving my sideburns and not be called somethin’ gendered every 10 minutes, even in jest. And in a place where I’m certainly more knowledgeable about Stuff. And Things. And learnin’ all the time.


I had so many doubts. Two of my entries from a particular meltdown were titled “I may not be trans enough.” And I was just a worrywart.


  • Was this just borne of frustration of being feminine-read/patriarchy?

  • Do I need hormones? / Am I still validated without needing surgery?

  • Was this because of my parents?

  • Am I trans? If I am cis, do I still get to be genderqueer?

  • Can I be genderqueer? Am I trendergrender or something?

  • Am I ready?

  • Am I sure?


The majority of these questions was when there were so many different variations of the definition of cis floating around. Not to mention the truscum gatekeepers got me fucked up- I assure you, I’ll talk about them later.


And I was finally, finally shedding the last of the fear and truly Stopped Giving Much Less of a Fuck.


So.


Yea.


I’m pretty fucking sure.


After a solid year of second guessing, and a life of little cascaded moments.

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“Whoa,” I said, sitting up a little as the credits rolled. “I haven’t heard that in forever.”


“What song is it?” he asked, shifting under my head. We had been binging Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure for two hours and Netflix’s “Are you still there?” prompt caught us lounging on the couch, my head on his lap.


“…I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve heard it.”


And as he did a quick Google search, I was too busy remembering.



As everyone should know by now– by pop culture osmosis or actually reading and/or watching the series– JJBA references rock artists and songs.


And my dad loved classic rock (rock, generally). Music, generally, but classic rock was his favorite genre. When I first heard Roundabout, I wasn’t familiar with it. But I knew the style, and it was confirmed by my mom that it was one of the many songs he liked.


I may not remember much, like the title or who performed it, but I knew that tune from my childhood:


There are spoilers here, btw. Check out Spotify instead if you need to.


Growing up for me consisted of a lot of waiting– my school district was in another county, so we had to wait an hour for the bus. When I was older, we waited for daycare to open. During the periods where we had only one vehicle, we waited for mom to get out of work. We waited for the bus again in my high school years and when I graduated, we waited in a McDonald’s parking lot on top of a surprisingly scenic hill.


A lot of that waiting was done in the car, with the radio on. And all of the time, it was me and my dad. And finally, my dad would scope out pretty chill places to, well, wait. These would usually be bodies of water or an interesting bit of forest. When he was in the mood, he’d talk (OK, a lot of the time it was more like lecturing), but we mostly just listened to the music.


And hearing the first bars of that song… it jogged a memory of when I was much younger: There was a lake, and it was afternoon, probably early spring. We may have been killing time before we picked up mom. I don’t remember what I was doing or even which car it was at the time. Hell, human memory is pretty faulty in general and I could be misremembering all of this.


But I remember when my dad was still alive.


Grief is something else. It never goes away, it just crops up when you’re watching an animated series that’s supposed to be (for the most part) fun. But considering my reaction to Dan of Steel (Gaucho was another defining background album from my childhood), I kinda saw this coming.


So this “just” (air quotes) made me miss him.


I listened to this song on Spotify and finally cried again.

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This was a draft for 2020-01-01 that I never posted.


I stayed in this year. After work, I was so tired. I stayed home with my nesting partners, played video games, and watched more Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure. I drank a mimosa with a lover once the clock struck twelve, and kissed everyone I could.


I’m rolling out the accolades, still. “Happy New Year!” with a shitton of emojis. We did it. Another year. Let’s make this year even better.


And yet, I am sad.


I open up Discord and there’s names that have been grey to me for months. I’m still not over my friend’s passing. I’m dreading work drudgery tomorrow. I’m worried about a childhood friend. Deadlines are looming. Were we even missed? More adulting this weekend. Plans being made.


I keep backspacing.


I’m stumped. I don’t know if I should say any more.


I’ve until midnight to dole out my “Happy New Year”s.


We’ve got time.


Maybe this would work better as a poem.


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While I was VerboseTerse, I participated in write31days one year and got incredibly introspective and detailed about my gender. Or lack of. I revisit my thoughts once in awhile, especially on those long nights when I just can’t get to sleep.

One of the webcomics I routinely follow is Dumbing of Age, and lately, Malaya had me thinking about my journey. When she’s not being a base breaker a jerkass witty person wearing bitchin’ outfits, watching her navigate college with ever-growing questions about her own gender has been… eerily familiar.

Malaya discussing how she's "probably" a woman due to how her body is.
This was my rationale for years.

I also want to note that as of this writing, Malaya’s story arc hasn’t come to its conclusion. Only Willis knows how this’ll play out, but for the audience we’re wondering, too. Is she cisgender? Transgender, after all; maybe non-binary? Does she come off as a jerkass calling out "fake" people to hide her insecurities about not knowing where exactly she falls on the gender spectrum? Where the hell did she get that top?

"The Box Marked F must be for me, because it’s my size, isn’t it? Aren’t I supposed to fit? Who am I to argue?" I’ve wondered that a lot, myself.

And the strip that ran on Oct. 16th had me thinking: did I always know?

Malaya asking, "Did you always know you're a girl?"

A common (or maybe, popularized?) trans narrative is "I’ve Always Known." Someone knew, since they were little, that they were transgender. There were always signs and little to no questioning and angst.

I’ve had doubts, sure. And doubts about my doubts. So my "I’ve Always Known" story isn’t clearly defined, like a chicken-or-the-egg scenario.

There was a ton of unpacking and thinking and backsides because if I was transgender, I would have had a clear sign by now, right? Right?

But at the same time, I had little epiphanies of my own. They just didn’t click until later. I looked back and was not surprised.

And there are so many ways to be your gender identity. Despite what society tells you, there’s no wrong way to be a man, woman, both, neither, or something your carved out for yourself!

I fought social conditioning and compulsory gender roles to settle fully outside The Box Marked F.

And yes, trust me, I’m sure. The particular "flavor" of my transness may change (I’ve gone from genderqueer to neutrois and now I use agender and non-binary interchangeably)… But I will always be outside the box.

That’s the short of it.

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A schedule slip! It happens. I’m extra proud of myself for sticking with it for that long. Besides, I’m still cringing in embarrassment about other things.


I make it a point to tell dates and potential dates (at least) three things: I’m polyamorous, I’m non-binary/agender/NA using they/them/themselves, and I’m absolutely fucking clueless when someone is into me (so please tell me outright, as unsexy or unromantic as that sounds). And I don’t mean that in an endearing Manic-Pixie-Dream-Girl (ick) kind of way. I cannot think of a strong enough word for it at the moment, but I’ll just say that it’s… not endearing.


So imagine the scene: you’re sitting at a cozy table and you’re watching the stage. Or, you would be, if you weren’t distracted by actually wanting to talk to somebody. They seem really cool, and you notice your bodies are actually touching as you sit, and your heart stops a little when they reach for your hand and compliment it. And hold it for longer than deemed socially acceptable in anything but a romantic situation. Conversation is easy-flowing. It was nice.


It wasn’t until hours later that I was tipped off that their interaction wasn’t just platonic. In our text conversation they asked me point-blank:


“Were you aware that I was flirting with you?”


I replay that night in my head and I remember all of my dismissals:


  • They’re just being polite.
  • Well, this booth is pretty small… not much space, anyway.
  • I get a lot of compliments on my tiny hands, cool!
  • Oh, they’re just being oversharey. Some folks are like that.
  • Are they…? Nah. Who would be into me, anyway?
  • No way.
  • They’re just being sociable.
  • I’m three beers in; I shouldn’t read too much into these interactions.
  • Nah.
  • They’re
  • just
  • being
  • friendly.


There’s my lack of self-esteem, yes; you become the punchline of too many “s/he likes you!” bullying jokes in middle school and you initially distrust anyone showing interest in you. And generally, I get down on myself a lot.


An image of a bee sitting on a windowsill.
“I dunno man, what if my knees aren’t that great?” (Probable Source)


But I’d rather point out the main difficulty I have with most flirting: if it isn’t overt, I just don’t get it. And even then…


A lot of it is just hinting– and since I haven’t memorized the dating playbook (and most social cues outside of dating, if I’m really honest…), I’m caught in a loop of ambiguity. I also never want to be That Person that mistakes a friendly interaction as flirting, so I err on the side of caution and dismiss it.


So of course to the aforementioned text I responded rather un-eloquently:


“NO I HAD NO IDEA YOU WERE FLIRTING I AM A DINGUS”


I’ve grown a little better in telling when they’re flirting with me now, and they know now just to rip off the bandaid (?) when it comes to that sorta thing.


So there you go.


That’s why I’m a dingus.

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Not too long ago I received my first singing lesson since grade school:


He picked up his guitar and tuned it; I sat in his computer chair. Back straight, deep breaths, sing loud and deep and hold that note. Listen, and match this note. Deep breaths. No, deeper. He had to get close to really listen. He had to correct, and praise, and guide. We practiced together– voice and cords, to our favorite songs.


It was a different sort of intimacy than what we were used to.


My voice was strongest when I really felt the song… really connected with it and my emotion carried the notes through. I felt so proud of myself.


I daydream the mic in my hands, confidently singing the words that resonated with me, then through me… to you.



This week, we had our karaoke outing, the first after a long hiatus. It’s supposed to be a group activity, but most of the time it’s just us two. Which, sometimes, it’s fine: when my heart flutters as he sings my favorite lines, or I’m forcibly transported into my past by nostalgia, I’ve no witnesses and thus no questions (and if the other patrons ever noticed, they were nice about it and left me be).


In the audience I sometimes find myself warbling along, almost compelled. I always have before, but now I’m remembering my lesson. Still, only the people nearby could hear me.


I believe I heard him say that night, “you should go up there.”


I’m too shy– I don’t know all the words– I’m not as good as the others– I need more lessons, I’m not ready– I’m terrified– I’m content to sing in this corner of this tiny little bar— I’d rather watch you all night, lover– stage fright.


He didn’t push.


I’ve been on the karaoke stage before. I’m always down for singing Disney tunes or The Time Warp with a group, or… even a duet with a favorite song and one of my favorite people.


But never by myself. Not yet.


In order to become better at something, you have to be brave. And, to quote Jake from Adventure Time: “sucking at something is the first step to becoming sorta good at something.” I know it’s all being frightened and doing it anyway, and practice, and knowing mindtricks for crowds and stages. (To pretend he’s the only one in the audience– would that work? Because I have no problem when we’re at home, and it’s just them overhearing me.)


Since I (rarely) go onstage, I watch and I cheer to make up for it. People of varying talent still go up there and are much braver than I; that alone warrants an enthusiastic “WOO!” But my night is near: I’ll be brave enough, soon. I’ll be tired of daydreaming, eventually.


I’ll ask for another singing lesson tonight.

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It’s the last day of the month, so I suppose I address two topics: National Coming Out Day and Halloween(ish). I’ve been thinking about the latter, and the former will be scheduled over the weekend.


All’s (s)hallow


Perhaps it’s because I’m finally on my upswing, but I went above and beyond on my costuming– or at least getting dolled up, and at least, compared to how I usually roll. I rarely indulge in creativity in my outfits beyond a silly headband, mismatched earrings, and a smart-ass graphic tee.


I couldn’t help but get caught up in the festivities and excitement. So I managed a wig, new headband, tights (which I actually regret, but they’re still cute), an outfit from the thrift store, and even a bit of makeup.


Consider this premise: tonight is the time we actually take off our costume and present our innermost self… how we see ourselves.


Maybe I am glitter and rainbows. Perhaps I’m some weird thing that wiggles antennae while wobbling in heels and you’ll just have to guess what I am, exactly. Possibly, I’m a fun meme. I am cute– hot, even. My eyes are alluring. My gender still non-existent, but still valid beneath the long synthetic hair. I am bright. I am. I am.


I wish I had the energy to do that more often.


I clean up nicely.


All Hallows


The sugar rush eventually ends, and I peel off the brightest layers of myself and return them to their inner rooms. For now. But I become somber. Death is a little bit closer than usual, and I generally associate October with endings as well.


It’s when the candles are no longer just for ambiance; I light them on my altar and think about my ancestors and those who are no longer with us.


I leave his favorite candy bar on the white tablecloth.


It’s when I ruminate on relationships and partnerships that I’m no longer participating in, for whatever reason.


I miss them and I mourn and I remember.


And I wonder. What impression would I leave behind, if any? How would I be remembered? How would I want to be remembered?


Memento Mori.


Would you remember this?