Congratulations, Natalie! You've worked super-duper, extra-textra, wacko-yako, walla-walla doo da ding dong hard and we're here to tell you that you are SO on a team!
Do ants eat boogers?
I wrote down the bills I have to pay on the back of bill I have to pay and every time I cross off a bill I paid, I hope that somehow that will affect the bill I have not paid yet in a positive way.
I need new bras and underwear. I read somewhere that a person should never leave the house with stained or ripped undies because "you never know who'll wind up seeing them." This is true, and now I feel like a sinner 6 out of 7 days a week, because I only have a few pairs of panties that aren't totally embarrassing. Shopping for underwear sucks though. NO ONE'S BUTT LOOKS GOOD IN A MIRROR IN VICKY'S SECRET OKAY!? I'M NOT READY FOR THAT AT THE MOMENT
SO LEAVE ME ALONE, UNDERWEAR.
There are people, out there, wherever there may be, who are currently farting and hoping no one smells it. There are also people out there who are victims of their surrounding and will be blamed for the noxious smell because they're fat. Why do I always assume the fat person farted? It's not fair. But I do. Even when I fart in public, I think it is somehow, a little bit the big-boned person's fault. Like, they're a fart goblin that curses those around them with stinky methane releases.
I was once called "crazy" by an Ex. I still sting from that because blanket statements are the worst insults.
I'm not crazy: if I were, my friends would know.
I'm scared that a mosquito will fly into my room and I'll have to kill it by smooshing it against my walls. I don't want to do that because I'll have smooshed bugs on my newly painted wall and although I like to think of the dead bodies as a warning to future intruders, the tiny mosquito brains don't pick up on the hint, and come in, out for blood, regardless. I hate those little high-pitched, stinging, banes of my existence. I hate them!
I paid a credit card bill tonight, and as I did it, I imagined reading everything on the page in a really obnoxious effeminate voice. "Thissss is gonna be grrrreat. Oh kurrr? I'm juhssst gonna' pay thissss bill and freakin' be on top of my la-ife! Pay Na-oww? You betcha', you dirty little statement. I'm gonna pay the shit out of you like a nasssssty whore at the end of a layy."
I'm directing a show in June. For real.
I'm nervous about getting on an improv house team. For real.
I farted. For real. If you were here, there would be no fat person to blame.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Life in a Storm
"Take that stick and shove it up your ass!" The Captain screamed. The spray from the foamy waves that were bettering the ship were no help: everyone's mood was in the shitter. Gloomy and hungry the crew went back to their duties. The stormy weather had lasted for days at this point, and when Busan climbed to the Crow's Nest to check the status of the clouds all he had to report were bleak grays and greens for miles in every direction. The clothing was wet, the food was wet, the beds were wet and the there was little comfort from any of it. Whenever Busan went below to sleep or rest the damp smell of vomit, mold and mildew hit his nostrils and sent a wave of nausea through his stomach. Busan was no wimp, and would never complain to the other crew-mates about the state of the ship, but he dreamed of being dry like the roughest, nastiest pirates would dream of found gold.
The "Bright Light" was bound for the Far East to trade with the merchants for tea and silk. Busan was heading home having been gone for almost three years. He often wondered about his mother and his family still waiting for him to return. He cursed himself for not writing to them more often, but given what travels the "Bright Light" had experienced, it was hard to write anything that didn't get soaking wet. Busan also didn't want his crew-mates to know he knew how to read and write. He had told precious few people. The Captain knew, and used Busan for those skills occasionally, but otherwise Busan preferred to work on deck. There were so many stories to be told and to listen to from the other sailors. Indeed, it was the only thing that was keeping moral up.
Busan looked at Skinny Jim's shaking hands as he held what remained of the banister from the staircase leading up to the Captain's Quarters. As Jim was climbing, a large wave hit the ship, causing him to rip the rotting wood right off the stairs. He held it up, dumbfounded, just as the Captain was emerging from his rooms. The glint in the Captain's eye was nothing to laugh at and poor, skinny, sea-sick, Jim was no match for the wrath the Captain was capable of. The "Bright Light" was old. Captain had been sailing her for decades and it was said that his blood and sweat were the varnish on the deck. Any damage to the ship was almost seen as an offense to the Captain. Jim looked at the rotten banister guiltily and threw it overboard with a large heave. The activity of throwing the heavy, sodden wood made Jim sick again and he began to vomit anew.
Busan stayed clear of Skinny Jim. Some sailors were saying he was bad luck and Busan wanted none of that.
It was Busan's job to coil the rope. He looked at the futile task that would become undone the minute he wound it and sighed. He imagined home again: the rolling green hills, the white fluffy clouds that would rain in the afternoons. He thought of the warm sun on the rice patties and the beautiful girls who would chuckle and laugh at the well when he walked by. He thought of what he must look like now: a wet rat? and if anyone would recognize him. He had hated London. It was grey and everything was dirty and covered in stone. The people there looked at him like he had three eyes just because he didn't have blonde hair and he spoke with an accent. Busan was no idiot, he knew when he signed up to travel and leave his home on the coast that he'd have to learn english quickly, and that he'd have to go a step further and learn just a little bit more (like reading and writing) to give him an edge. He loved his travels to far off places and felt at home on the ocean, but maybe it was time to go and settle down, marry one of the girls in the village and become a fisherman, like his father.
Isn't life down the road easy to plan when one is miserable in the present? He asked himself. Of course the Village seems ideal now. Of course the prospect of the simple life of a fisherman is attractive here in the middle of the wide and terrible ocean that is pounding away at our tiny ship! I haven't put on a pair of dry pants in three weeks. He thought again. But, the stories the sailers tell! The adventures the "Bright Light" has been on! It all seems so dampened here in the thick of the hell that the Ship was in, but it was too much to want to leave, even after three years! Busan looked up at the clouds again, the rain was lightening up a bit. There's blue sky on the other side of that grey, He thought. I'm not ready to leave this life yet.
Skinny Jim was trying to get himself off of all fours and clean himself up a bit. Busan smiled at the sight. There's always someone more miserable than me, at least. He grabbed the hemp rope and began to coil it, so what if it would unravel again?
The "Bright Light" was bound for the Far East to trade with the merchants for tea and silk. Busan was heading home having been gone for almost three years. He often wondered about his mother and his family still waiting for him to return. He cursed himself for not writing to them more often, but given what travels the "Bright Light" had experienced, it was hard to write anything that didn't get soaking wet. Busan also didn't want his crew-mates to know he knew how to read and write. He had told precious few people. The Captain knew, and used Busan for those skills occasionally, but otherwise Busan preferred to work on deck. There were so many stories to be told and to listen to from the other sailors. Indeed, it was the only thing that was keeping moral up.
Busan looked at Skinny Jim's shaking hands as he held what remained of the banister from the staircase leading up to the Captain's Quarters. As Jim was climbing, a large wave hit the ship, causing him to rip the rotting wood right off the stairs. He held it up, dumbfounded, just as the Captain was emerging from his rooms. The glint in the Captain's eye was nothing to laugh at and poor, skinny, sea-sick, Jim was no match for the wrath the Captain was capable of. The "Bright Light" was old. Captain had been sailing her for decades and it was said that his blood and sweat were the varnish on the deck. Any damage to the ship was almost seen as an offense to the Captain. Jim looked at the rotten banister guiltily and threw it overboard with a large heave. The activity of throwing the heavy, sodden wood made Jim sick again and he began to vomit anew.
Busan stayed clear of Skinny Jim. Some sailors were saying he was bad luck and Busan wanted none of that.
It was Busan's job to coil the rope. He looked at the futile task that would become undone the minute he wound it and sighed. He imagined home again: the rolling green hills, the white fluffy clouds that would rain in the afternoons. He thought of the warm sun on the rice patties and the beautiful girls who would chuckle and laugh at the well when he walked by. He thought of what he must look like now: a wet rat? and if anyone would recognize him. He had hated London. It was grey and everything was dirty and covered in stone. The people there looked at him like he had three eyes just because he didn't have blonde hair and he spoke with an accent. Busan was no idiot, he knew when he signed up to travel and leave his home on the coast that he'd have to learn english quickly, and that he'd have to go a step further and learn just a little bit more (like reading and writing) to give him an edge. He loved his travels to far off places and felt at home on the ocean, but maybe it was time to go and settle down, marry one of the girls in the village and become a fisherman, like his father.
Isn't life down the road easy to plan when one is miserable in the present? He asked himself. Of course the Village seems ideal now. Of course the prospect of the simple life of a fisherman is attractive here in the middle of the wide and terrible ocean that is pounding away at our tiny ship! I haven't put on a pair of dry pants in three weeks. He thought again. But, the stories the sailers tell! The adventures the "Bright Light" has been on! It all seems so dampened here in the thick of the hell that the Ship was in, but it was too much to want to leave, even after three years! Busan looked up at the clouds again, the rain was lightening up a bit. There's blue sky on the other side of that grey, He thought. I'm not ready to leave this life yet.
Skinny Jim was trying to get himself off of all fours and clean himself up a bit. Busan smiled at the sight. There's always someone more miserable than me, at least. He grabbed the hemp rope and began to coil it, so what if it would unravel again?
Monday, April 15, 2013
Phase 3: Relationships
If one morning I woke up and was a man, but with my brain, what would I do?
Phase 3: Relationships
It's later that evening. We're sitting at a window in a pizzaria in midtown. The date with Jane went pretty well. She's pretty and funny and I like her. All I could think about was how to get her home later. After the fist few minutes of conversation she started to vent about how annoying her friends were and I started to lose interest. Why do girls get so whiney about things that don't matter? It's like, they take an idea or a concept and then beat it to death with the sound of their voice. I patiently listened, but found my mind wandering to what her chest would look like once I've taken off her shirt.
At one point she excused herself to go use the bathroom. As she stood up she readjusted her waist high, skin-tight, black pants and pulled down her V-neck T-shirt to fit her sternum better. I smiled as I watched her do this. Girls need to adjust, we have to wear so many things that even the act of sitting can throw everything out of wack. I looked at my plain T-shirt and pants and felt blessed. Even if I am a guy for only 24 hours, this is pretty cool. No bra. No thong. I'm not even worried about what my hair looks like. Jane's probably going to the bathroom to not only pee, but to fix her hair, adjust her make-up and give herself a pep-up by texting one of her girlfriends.
I watched her leave and caught the eye of two middle aged Italian men also watching Jane. They looked back at me. "You've got quite a nice little thing." Said the first. He was balding and had two pinky rings on. The second chuckled. "If I were younger, I would waste no time eating pizza, but get her back to my place lickety-split." The Pinky Ring guy said again. His partner, a salt-and-pepper haired man wearing a polo shirt, chuckled. I smiled, unsure of how to respond. Men NEVER talk to me like that as a woman. Instead, they watch me as I cross the room, and caress me with their eyes so hard I feel like I develop bruises. These two Men were now forming a fraternity with me just because we all have a penis (well, all of us at the moment.) I suddenly wished I could change back into the woman I was and then take hold of the bread roll in front of me and beat them with it. I felt ashamed. Not even five minutes ago I was planning on which ways to have sex with this girl the fastest and now felt totally perverted. She deserves to be worshipped!
Jane got back from the bathroom as the middle aged men were paying their check and getting up to leave. The one with the pinky rings came over and slapped my back. "Nice." He said as he pulled out a twenty dollar bill and put it in my hand. "Buy her some flowers or something." He murmured, never taking his eyes off of Jane, who was pretending to check her phone and not notice. "Thanks." I said, taking the money and watching them leave.
Outside the restaurant, Jane was quiet. I tried to recall what would be pissing her off with what was quickly becoming a weaker memory of being a girl. As a guy, I was back to imagining what her butt would feel like. I tried to clear my thoughts. "You okay?" I asked. She was quiet for a minute. I felt a stab of deep awkwardness. Oh, the silent treatment. God, that sucks. Once I am a girl again, I'm going to try not to ever use the silent treatment. As a guy, it's really fucking annoying because I truly don't know what's wrong. Really. I don't. I didn't catch some stupid nuance that you caught and decided to make a big deal out of. Explain it to me. I felt incredibly annoyed because something happened that I did wrong and I don't know how to rectify it. Plus, I had to pay the whole damn bill, so you can at least be nicer to me. She didn't even offer! Thank god I had the twenty, it made a really expensive evening a do-able evening.
"Why did you take that twenty from that creepy old man?" Jane finally asked.
Ooooohhh... There it is. "Because he was offering." I said. Duh.
"They were really weird and were looking me up and down and you took money from them. I feel like I did something to get them off, and you got paid for it." She quipped, her voice getting higher.
"Do you want the twenty?" I asked.
"NO. I don't WANT their money! Okay? I wish you had been a MAN and given it back to them. They were GROSS."
We walked in silence again. If I were a girl, we probably would have laughed about this. This was dumb. Just another "guy not getting it" situation. But, I'm not a guy. I mean, I am, but only temporarily. I went over a mental checklist of things I could do to save the situation. I still wanted to feel her up and feel what it would be like to have a blow job, but was feeling less and less likely that any of that would happen.
As we walked I watched New York City around us. A small pudgy girl walking next to her mom was wearing a tiara and sucking her thumb. She was covered head to toe in pink. She looked up at Jane and took in the image of a young woman, probably to obsess over in years to come and use as a reference for why she wasn't as pretty enough. Jane was pretty. I was handsome. Of course we would go on a date together. I thought of the men I had turned down. The men I had humored. The men I had ignored. Getting Jane to go out with me was just about one of the easiest dates I had ever accomplished. Guys never just "go out." As a woman, I had to wait for them to text me, wait for them to pick a spot. Wait for them to pick a day. Then, if the date went well, wait for them to respond. That's the game I've found with attractive men. They can get a girl instantly. Like I got Jane. I looked at her walking next to me. A thought flashed in my mind: you're totally replaceable. I don't have to put up with this.
A subway stop came into view. "Is that the NR stop?" She asked, squinting. It was. "I think I'll hop in here and head back to Astoria." She said, looking at me. Ah, doing the whole "You gonna ask me over tonight?" look. I recognized it immediately. I took her hand, feeling how fancy it felt in my big hand. Damn, women are beautiful.
"I'm sorry about the twenty." I said. "I had a great time. You're really pretty. It was nice getting to know you." I pulled her in for a kiss and felt her melt into my chest. For the record: telling a woman they look nice is ALWAYS a good way to bail oneself out of a nasty situation. Whether you are a guy, a girl, or a girl in a guy's body. Seriously. We smooched for a minute or two before pulling away from each other.
"I'm going to go home." I said. Feeling an unnatural exhaustion coming over me.
"Wanna do this again sometime?" She asked.
"Maybe." I said. Feeling more and more tired by the second. I needed to get home and go to sleep. Something was telling me that this romp as a dude was coming to an end. I looked at my cell phone which read 11pm. Carriage turns back to a pumpkin at midnight, I guess. I thought. That's really cliche. I turned to the street and hailed a cab to take me back home. Jane stood a little dumbfounded on the corner as my cab pulled away.
That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about the adventures I had had as a man. The difference in how I was treated. I wished everyone could have the same experience. I felt different, but more ready to be a woman than I had ever felt. I'm going to write a book about this and no one will believe that it actually happened. I thought before drifting off to sleep.
Phase 3: Relationships
It's later that evening. We're sitting at a window in a pizzaria in midtown. The date with Jane went pretty well. She's pretty and funny and I like her. All I could think about was how to get her home later. After the fist few minutes of conversation she started to vent about how annoying her friends were and I started to lose interest. Why do girls get so whiney about things that don't matter? It's like, they take an idea or a concept and then beat it to death with the sound of their voice. I patiently listened, but found my mind wandering to what her chest would look like once I've taken off her shirt.
At one point she excused herself to go use the bathroom. As she stood up she readjusted her waist high, skin-tight, black pants and pulled down her V-neck T-shirt to fit her sternum better. I smiled as I watched her do this. Girls need to adjust, we have to wear so many things that even the act of sitting can throw everything out of wack. I looked at my plain T-shirt and pants and felt blessed. Even if I am a guy for only 24 hours, this is pretty cool. No bra. No thong. I'm not even worried about what my hair looks like. Jane's probably going to the bathroom to not only pee, but to fix her hair, adjust her make-up and give herself a pep-up by texting one of her girlfriends.
I watched her leave and caught the eye of two middle aged Italian men also watching Jane. They looked back at me. "You've got quite a nice little thing." Said the first. He was balding and had two pinky rings on. The second chuckled. "If I were younger, I would waste no time eating pizza, but get her back to my place lickety-split." The Pinky Ring guy said again. His partner, a salt-and-pepper haired man wearing a polo shirt, chuckled. I smiled, unsure of how to respond. Men NEVER talk to me like that as a woman. Instead, they watch me as I cross the room, and caress me with their eyes so hard I feel like I develop bruises. These two Men were now forming a fraternity with me just because we all have a penis (well, all of us at the moment.) I suddenly wished I could change back into the woman I was and then take hold of the bread roll in front of me and beat them with it. I felt ashamed. Not even five minutes ago I was planning on which ways to have sex with this girl the fastest and now felt totally perverted. She deserves to be worshipped!
Jane got back from the bathroom as the middle aged men were paying their check and getting up to leave. The one with the pinky rings came over and slapped my back. "Nice." He said as he pulled out a twenty dollar bill and put it in my hand. "Buy her some flowers or something." He murmured, never taking his eyes off of Jane, who was pretending to check her phone and not notice. "Thanks." I said, taking the money and watching them leave.
Outside the restaurant, Jane was quiet. I tried to recall what would be pissing her off with what was quickly becoming a weaker memory of being a girl. As a guy, I was back to imagining what her butt would feel like. I tried to clear my thoughts. "You okay?" I asked. She was quiet for a minute. I felt a stab of deep awkwardness. Oh, the silent treatment. God, that sucks. Once I am a girl again, I'm going to try not to ever use the silent treatment. As a guy, it's really fucking annoying because I truly don't know what's wrong. Really. I don't. I didn't catch some stupid nuance that you caught and decided to make a big deal out of. Explain it to me. I felt incredibly annoyed because something happened that I did wrong and I don't know how to rectify it. Plus, I had to pay the whole damn bill, so you can at least be nicer to me. She didn't even offer! Thank god I had the twenty, it made a really expensive evening a do-able evening.
"Why did you take that twenty from that creepy old man?" Jane finally asked.
Ooooohhh... There it is. "Because he was offering." I said. Duh.
"They were really weird and were looking me up and down and you took money from them. I feel like I did something to get them off, and you got paid for it." She quipped, her voice getting higher.
"Do you want the twenty?" I asked.
"NO. I don't WANT their money! Okay? I wish you had been a MAN and given it back to them. They were GROSS."
We walked in silence again. If I were a girl, we probably would have laughed about this. This was dumb. Just another "guy not getting it" situation. But, I'm not a guy. I mean, I am, but only temporarily. I went over a mental checklist of things I could do to save the situation. I still wanted to feel her up and feel what it would be like to have a blow job, but was feeling less and less likely that any of that would happen.
As we walked I watched New York City around us. A small pudgy girl walking next to her mom was wearing a tiara and sucking her thumb. She was covered head to toe in pink. She looked up at Jane and took in the image of a young woman, probably to obsess over in years to come and use as a reference for why she wasn't as pretty enough. Jane was pretty. I was handsome. Of course we would go on a date together. I thought of the men I had turned down. The men I had humored. The men I had ignored. Getting Jane to go out with me was just about one of the easiest dates I had ever accomplished. Guys never just "go out." As a woman, I had to wait for them to text me, wait for them to pick a spot. Wait for them to pick a day. Then, if the date went well, wait for them to respond. That's the game I've found with attractive men. They can get a girl instantly. Like I got Jane. I looked at her walking next to me. A thought flashed in my mind: you're totally replaceable. I don't have to put up with this.
A subway stop came into view. "Is that the NR stop?" She asked, squinting. It was. "I think I'll hop in here and head back to Astoria." She said, looking at me. Ah, doing the whole "You gonna ask me over tonight?" look. I recognized it immediately. I took her hand, feeling how fancy it felt in my big hand. Damn, women are beautiful.
"I'm sorry about the twenty." I said. "I had a great time. You're really pretty. It was nice getting to know you." I pulled her in for a kiss and felt her melt into my chest. For the record: telling a woman they look nice is ALWAYS a good way to bail oneself out of a nasty situation. Whether you are a guy, a girl, or a girl in a guy's body. Seriously. We smooched for a minute or two before pulling away from each other.
"I'm going to go home." I said. Feeling an unnatural exhaustion coming over me.
"Wanna do this again sometime?" She asked.
"Maybe." I said. Feeling more and more tired by the second. I needed to get home and go to sleep. Something was telling me that this romp as a dude was coming to an end. I looked at my cell phone which read 11pm. Carriage turns back to a pumpkin at midnight, I guess. I thought. That's really cliche. I turned to the street and hailed a cab to take me back home. Jane stood a little dumbfounded on the corner as my cab pulled away.
That night, as I lay in bed, I thought about the adventures I had had as a man. The difference in how I was treated. I wished everyone could have the same experience. I felt different, but more ready to be a woman than I had ever felt. I'm going to write a book about this and no one will believe that it actually happened. I thought before drifting off to sleep.
Friday, April 12, 2013
Phase 2: Society.
If one morning I woke up and was a man, but with my brain, what would I do?
Phase 2: Society.
I'm on the subway. I'm sitting like I would if I were a female: legs crossed at the ankles, shoulders hunched in, and I'm picking my nails. I realize, as I look at the other men on the car for guidance, that that is not usual. There are some guys picking their nails, but as I look around, most guys are sitting slouched, feet firmly on the floor, checking their phones, listening to music, maybe biting their nails, or staring off into the middle distance. Interesting. Very few seems to want to make themselves smaller, like I'm habitually doing.
I stand up and worry that somehow someone will pick up on the crazy fact that yesterday I was a woman and today I am a man with a woman's brain. I catch myself looking away whenever I make eye contact with someone. Although, here's an interesting moment: people now look away from me as well. As a woman, I had to constantly dodge the stares of bold-faced men who would look me up and down from ankle to neck. As a man, however, the energy is different. I experiment.
A woman walks on to the train at the next stop. She looks at me, I look at her, she looks away, I keep looking. It's that easy!? As a woman, is it that easy? If I keep looking at a man, as a man, am I too bold? I pick a dark haired, middle aged man a few feet away from me and look at him. He looks at me, then looks away. There is not a hint of sexual tension, no wink from him, no small smile, he just: looked away. This is great! If I were me, but like, really me: boobs, long hair, mascara and jeans, and I looked at that man for longer than a few seconds, I might get the wink, the smile, the "look", etc. Maybe not, but more than likely I would. And then, for the duration of the train ride, I might feel awkward and worried that if I look at him again he'll "get the wrong idea" about my intentions. As a guy, however, I feel no such thing.
At my stop I step off the train and bump into an older, gray haired woman with a large black scarf wrapped around her prodigious shoulders. She gets gruff, "Watch were you're going, dick head." She mumbles, looking at my face. I'm shocked. As a girl, I'm never spoken to in that way. The animosity is palpable. I feel stupid. "Sorry." I say and immediately cover my mouth with my hand. WAS THAT MY VOICE!? My voice is so deep!! As a woman, I wouldn't say I have a particularly high voice, but certainly a higher timbre than my male friends! I just said sorry and could feel the deeper tones come through my throat, my more pronounced adams apple moving, my lips forming around the syllables differently. This is TOO COOL! I want to talk more!
I'm Taller! I'm pushing 6'2" easily. I'm a tall woman, but as a man, I'm one of the taller guys in the subway. I see over most people's heads. As I approach the steps to get out of the station a young mother is struggling with her small child, a bag of groceries, and a stroller she has to heave up the stairs. Most people pass with barely a glance, all of the women make their way up the flight without a second look. I'm about to as well when she catches my eye and gives me a "Well, are you going to be a gentleman, or not?" look. I hesitate for a minute. Shorter men walk past without a pause, but as the tallest dude around, suddenly I'm expected to help this chick out. I do, relishing the deep sound of my voice as I say, "Would you like some help?" And then pick up her bags and stroller effortlessly. She thanks me profusely when we reach the street level. I feel like a white knight of goodness. As I set down her things I see passerby's giving me a nice smile, not a sexual smile, a "that is a good man, his mom raised him right to help that lady" smile.
As a treat, I decide to get myself a coffee. I turn in to walk to the nearest starbucks and pause at the entrance. A woman on her cell phone has stopped and is looking at me. I look at her, then realize she's waiting for me to open the door for her. Oh, come ON. You can open the fucking door I think, using my large hands to swing open the entrance for her. She walks in and gets on line in front of me. I want to shove her. So, just because you're a girl you can get on line ahead of me?! You're such a bitch. I think, getting more and more worked up. I think to all the times I have taken advantage of being a woman and getting served first, or getting the last piece of cake or having the first turn or getting any kind of advantage just because the men I am with feel obligated to do so because it is the "polite" thing to do. Wow. That's fucked. I promise, that if I am a woman again, I'll try and be more sensitive to that.
The cashier is cute. She takes my order and begins to flirt with me. I'm loving the giggles and winks as she writes my name down on my cup. She writes something else and then passes it along to me after filling it with coffee. "Jane (917) 845-4447" is written under my name, "Nate." I smile and look back at her taking someone else's order. I'm going to give this gal a text. I whip out my phone after leaving the coffeehouse and shoot her a quick no-brainer text (no: should I send this? Will that sound stupid? How do I write something effortless sounding without sounding like I'm trying too hard to be effortless?) Instead I write: "Hey, Jane. This is Nate from Starbucks. Want to get some coffee sometimes?" And then instantly forget I sent the text because I see a big dog coming in my direction and I want to pet the shit out of it.
To be continued...
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Phase 1: The Anatomy.
If one morning I woke up and was a man, but with my brain, what would I do?
Phase 1: The Anatomy.
First off, I'd probably wake up with an erection. Oh Cool! Now I get to wack off! I've never wacked off before, so it'll take me a few times to figure out what I'm doing. I'll try thinking about girls as I do it. Ew. Vaginas? Not really my cup of tea... wait, though. I'm feeling surges of testosterone and urges I've never felt to be inside something... huh. I GET IT! Oh my god! I GET IT! I want to screw every girl that walks in front of me! I want to have sex with them! I must do that today.
I wake up and look at myself in the mirror. No boobs. My chest feels lighter. No hips! My hair is so short! I scratch my chin and feel gristle. At first I panic. Oh my god, my face feels so rough and scratchy! I'm a beast! And I have some hair on my chest, too. Not really on my back, but my legs are covered in hair as well. Again, I have to fight another panic attack about my furriness. Am I kidding? I'm a guy, this shit is sexy, dammit!
After not having any dilemma about what to put on for clothing (this shirt's clean-ish, and I'll wear these jeans). Nor having to put on any makeup (just splashing my face with some water) I try to pee. FUN!! I get to try and aim for the bowl! Guys have all the fun, I can stand up, awkwardly whip out my junk, and pee. I laugh as I try and get my crotch ready to unleash. HAHA That's a penis. It's so funny looking. I never have to look at my vag, it's always just... under there. This thing, however is right out and flopping around like a wet noodle.
I'm hungry! In fact, I have a voracious appetite. I feel like I can eat a whole pig worth of bacon and follow that up with a hen house full of eggs. I walk into the kitchen. WOAH! This thing between my legs, like, flops a little when I walk! It's like, OUT THERE! HAHA! I stand still for a moment and wiggle my hips, feeling the weight of my crotch move. I check to see if anyone is around and then try a windmill. Sick. I jump up and down. No boobs to painfully bounce! Men have all the luck, even the absence of a bra feels like freedom. Nothing tight around my chest.
I scrounge up breakfast quickly and sit down to eat. Funny, as I eat: I just, eat. I'm shocked. Where are all the thoughts about why my friend didn't call me last night when she said she would and why I'm gonna be really pissed at her the next time I see her? No thoughts. Just: food. I get excited when I realize I'm not thinking and I hit my hand to the table top in celebration. I underestimate my strength and my plate of half finished breakfast flops right into my lap. PAIN!!!!!! PAIN!!!! Seething, deep, untouchably awful PAIN. Oh my god! When guys get hit in the balls it is NOT FUNNY. OH GOD it HURTS! I don't know what to do! I don't want to move! I just want to curl into a ball and lie on the floor for a while. So I do. I hope all my future children didn't just get crunched in that moment of idiocy.
Ten minuts later I am ready to move again. I'm not hungry anymore. I want to get outside! I want to discover the world as it is through a man's eyes! I check myself in the mirror before stepping out. I'm tall. I'm white. I'm a guy. I'm college educated. I'm an actor (can't wait to see how that changes things for me now that I'm a dude.) I'm good looking (If I were me again, well, me with a female anatomy, and I saw me as a guy walking down the street, but like, it wasn't me, it was some other guy I've never met, I'd TOTALLY do me.) I take a deep breath, feel the residual pain in my balls (ouch.) and walk outside.
To be continued.
Phase 1: The Anatomy.
First off, I'd probably wake up with an erection. Oh Cool! Now I get to wack off! I've never wacked off before, so it'll take me a few times to figure out what I'm doing. I'll try thinking about girls as I do it. Ew. Vaginas? Not really my cup of tea... wait, though. I'm feeling surges of testosterone and urges I've never felt to be inside something... huh. I GET IT! Oh my god! I GET IT! I want to screw every girl that walks in front of me! I want to have sex with them! I must do that today.
I wake up and look at myself in the mirror. No boobs. My chest feels lighter. No hips! My hair is so short! I scratch my chin and feel gristle. At first I panic. Oh my god, my face feels so rough and scratchy! I'm a beast! And I have some hair on my chest, too. Not really on my back, but my legs are covered in hair as well. Again, I have to fight another panic attack about my furriness. Am I kidding? I'm a guy, this shit is sexy, dammit!
After not having any dilemma about what to put on for clothing (this shirt's clean-ish, and I'll wear these jeans). Nor having to put on any makeup (just splashing my face with some water) I try to pee. FUN!! I get to try and aim for the bowl! Guys have all the fun, I can stand up, awkwardly whip out my junk, and pee. I laugh as I try and get my crotch ready to unleash. HAHA That's a penis. It's so funny looking. I never have to look at my vag, it's always just... under there. This thing, however is right out and flopping around like a wet noodle.
I'm hungry! In fact, I have a voracious appetite. I feel like I can eat a whole pig worth of bacon and follow that up with a hen house full of eggs. I walk into the kitchen. WOAH! This thing between my legs, like, flops a little when I walk! It's like, OUT THERE! HAHA! I stand still for a moment and wiggle my hips, feeling the weight of my crotch move. I check to see if anyone is around and then try a windmill. Sick. I jump up and down. No boobs to painfully bounce! Men have all the luck, even the absence of a bra feels like freedom. Nothing tight around my chest.
I scrounge up breakfast quickly and sit down to eat. Funny, as I eat: I just, eat. I'm shocked. Where are all the thoughts about why my friend didn't call me last night when she said she would and why I'm gonna be really pissed at her the next time I see her? No thoughts. Just: food. I get excited when I realize I'm not thinking and I hit my hand to the table top in celebration. I underestimate my strength and my plate of half finished breakfast flops right into my lap. PAIN!!!!!! PAIN!!!! Seething, deep, untouchably awful PAIN. Oh my god! When guys get hit in the balls it is NOT FUNNY. OH GOD it HURTS! I don't know what to do! I don't want to move! I just want to curl into a ball and lie on the floor for a while. So I do. I hope all my future children didn't just get crunched in that moment of idiocy.
Ten minuts later I am ready to move again. I'm not hungry anymore. I want to get outside! I want to discover the world as it is through a man's eyes! I check myself in the mirror before stepping out. I'm tall. I'm white. I'm a guy. I'm college educated. I'm an actor (can't wait to see how that changes things for me now that I'm a dude.) I'm good looking (If I were me again, well, me with a female anatomy, and I saw me as a guy walking down the street, but like, it wasn't me, it was some other guy I've never met, I'd TOTALLY do me.) I take a deep breath, feel the residual pain in my balls (ouch.) and walk outside.
To be continued.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Landing in the Windy City
Chicago spread out under me, in its brown hues, and went on for miles; stretching its long fingers into straight-arrow train tracks which disappeared in the horizon. I would have gawked more had the turbulence getting onto the landing strip not made me want to start praying for my life. The plane was shaking violently, changing the otherwise uneventful trip into a hair raising end.
I hate flying. I love travel. Unfortunately for poor, winey me I need to utilize air travel to get where I want to go if I am going to go anywhere interesting. I suck it up when I get really nervous as the plane hits a couple bumps in the air and tell myself that there are people who fly all the time, like, it's their job and they're not scared when the metal bird hits a couple heavy gusts: why should I be? I can no more keep the plane up in the air with my passionate pleas about being a better person than anyone else (including those flying the damn thing, if a wing flies off then we're all fucked, right?) So, I try to relax.
I've only been to Chicago once, and that was two years ago. I went for a couple days to see the friends I am visiting again on this trip. At the time I was with my best friend who dutifully held my hand when the flight got rough and who I spent the majority of the trip with while my local friends participated in their daily routines. This time, I'm flying solo.
Honestly, I'd consider myself a "partner" traveller. I really enjoy spending time with someone and gaining shared experiences with that person as we travel together. Road trips are great for that kind of thing. In fact: I never travel alone. The only time I traveled alone was when I flew to Italy, but even when I did that I was met at the airport by my sister and then pretty much spent the next two weeks operating around her schedule. During the day while she was at school I would wander and explore Florence, writing everything on my mind down on to the pages of my journal which I promptly filled with a lot of anxious thoughts about what it means to be alone.
As I sat in the terminal at LaGuardia airport I came across a twitter account of a solo gal who was bravely traveling across India and the World. She had posted another blog post about taking a bus trip to Spiti, India which I read with a sense of awe. Here was a woman who had decided to leave her life in the 1st world and started traveling. Alone. How brave! That means that this person had to decide where to go, how to get there, what she would do once she was there, etc, all on her own! I think that's why I love traveling with people, because of that discussion and perspective that the other person can bring to the plans.
I'm inspired, though. I've been to India, but with a group, and I am so impressed she did it alone. India is a helluva big place full of very foreign experiences and people, which can be very overwhelming even to a group (like the one I was in back in 2008 when I went for 6 weeks).
Here's to Chicago: a city very similar to New York, but thrilling nonetheless. I'm not here to find out where the fingers of those train tracks head to, but I am excited about wandering around on my own, this blog to keep me company. Oh, and also to see the really bitchin' improv show my buddy reserved us tickets for tomorrow night.
I hate flying. I love travel. Unfortunately for poor, winey me I need to utilize air travel to get where I want to go if I am going to go anywhere interesting. I suck it up when I get really nervous as the plane hits a couple bumps in the air and tell myself that there are people who fly all the time, like, it's their job and they're not scared when the metal bird hits a couple heavy gusts: why should I be? I can no more keep the plane up in the air with my passionate pleas about being a better person than anyone else (including those flying the damn thing, if a wing flies off then we're all fucked, right?) So, I try to relax.
I've only been to Chicago once, and that was two years ago. I went for a couple days to see the friends I am visiting again on this trip. At the time I was with my best friend who dutifully held my hand when the flight got rough and who I spent the majority of the trip with while my local friends participated in their daily routines. This time, I'm flying solo.
Honestly, I'd consider myself a "partner" traveller. I really enjoy spending time with someone and gaining shared experiences with that person as we travel together. Road trips are great for that kind of thing. In fact: I never travel alone. The only time I traveled alone was when I flew to Italy, but even when I did that I was met at the airport by my sister and then pretty much spent the next two weeks operating around her schedule. During the day while she was at school I would wander and explore Florence, writing everything on my mind down on to the pages of my journal which I promptly filled with a lot of anxious thoughts about what it means to be alone.
As I sat in the terminal at LaGuardia airport I came across a twitter account of a solo gal who was bravely traveling across India and the World. She had posted another blog post about taking a bus trip to Spiti, India which I read with a sense of awe. Here was a woman who had decided to leave her life in the 1st world and started traveling. Alone. How brave! That means that this person had to decide where to go, how to get there, what she would do once she was there, etc, all on her own! I think that's why I love traveling with people, because of that discussion and perspective that the other person can bring to the plans.
I'm inspired, though. I've been to India, but with a group, and I am so impressed she did it alone. India is a helluva big place full of very foreign experiences and people, which can be very overwhelming even to a group (like the one I was in back in 2008 when I went for 6 weeks).
Here's to Chicago: a city very similar to New York, but thrilling nonetheless. I'm not here to find out where the fingers of those train tracks head to, but I am excited about wandering around on my own, this blog to keep me company. Oh, and also to see the really bitchin' improv show my buddy reserved us tickets for tomorrow night.
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