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Thursday, 10 February 2000 (camerA) 10:26am I woke up at about half past four this morning to find the power was out. One thought raced through my head: i'm so glad my mom got me a y2k-compliant flashlight! 11:31am
I guess that was about 36 hours, give or take.
I'm happy for him. No, honestly, I am; if anyone around here deserved one, it was him, far moreso than your humble narrator. Basically, someone's who been in the real world so much longer than the rest of us punks (Leigh excepted on that note) deserves to have door he can shut once in a while.
Next up: get that sniveling little twerp away. Or get me away
from him. I'm beyond caring. Just him learning how to use a tissue
rather than the palm of his hand would be a vast improvement.
If this doesn't work, I can assume the problem is with the modem, or at least its
interaction with the computer or NT. Maddy's using the same phone line with no problems,
so at least it's not that. Woohoo for small miracles.
Part of the compromise of "free" access is, naturally, advertising. Advertising that has to remain on the screen.
Fortunately, I can stick it all the way down at the bottom, and setting the screen to 1152x864 helps regain some
of the lost real estate. I'm on and I can do the basics. That's what matters.
With an evil giggle, Summer sent me part of a new story she's working on. When Summer gets that way, it's usually a sign of danger ahead. The last time she got this was when she was insisting I read John Shirley's "Cram." Speaking of which, I just finished Shirley's Really, Really, Really Weird Stories. Much like when I read Black Butterflies, I'm feeling the urge to write again. Not this stuff, but actual stories. Maybe something will come of it, maybe something won't. I have a few ideas which may well die the same death as the last few ideas I've had.
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Wednesday, 9 February 2000 (call and answer) 6:07am Everything goes away.
On occasion, bits will come back that you never expected.
It would seem I'm on the verge of losing my net access on my computer at home. Hooked still won't let me on at all (although it works fine on Maddy's computer), and when my cnet dialup actually allows me to connect, it's reminiscent of a 300 baud modem. Pac Bell never did call back like they promised, and yet I'm still very tempted to just bite the bullet and order DSL. I called this morning and was assured that the presence of my neighbor's splitter in the garage will not impact me getting one of my own. I still foresee waiting two months for a tech to finally arrive for installation only to tell me that it can't be done with one already there. However, one of my more endearing qualities is my inability to take a simple hint, including everything I've heard about Pac Bell being unreliable. More unreliable than what I'm putting up with right now? And at least when it works, it'll work real nice... Meanwhile, the new software didn't work with my CD-R. Next step, I uninstall it, reinstall it, and keep my fingers crossed. When that doesn't work, I'll just have to accept that it doesn't work anymore and I probably never should have gotten it in the first place. Once in a while a hint gets through. My stomach still hurts, though I kept down everything I ate last night. Dark Sparkle seems much less likely for tonight.
I made an appointment with Miguel on Saturday to get my hair
done, in hopes that taking care of these roots will improve
my overall mood. That's what superficial cosmetic changes are
supposed to do, make up for a spiritual or emotional emptiness.
Both Shrine and Bound are that night, and if my stomach hasn't
finally migrated by then, we may end up going to one of them.
Or not. Never can tell what isn't going to happen until it doesn't
happen.
We will contact you within five business days to schedule and installation date. "To schedule and installation date." Christ! They mispelled "an." I wouldn't have even been quite so nervous had they just said "schedule a installation date." Just the excuse I was looking for to chicken out. Besides, I'll have a much better idea next week if I can really afford it. So.
Somewhere at home, I have another modem. I'll hunt around tonight, see if I can
find it, maybe that'll work better...before or after I reinstall the drive, I don't
know...
maybe I'm crazy 6:56pm I opened up the computer to see the drive's connections. Looked fine. Of course they did! To paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld, what was I expecting, an on-off switch? So I did it. I put in a request to Yamaha's technical support through their web-based form. The drive never got properly registered, of course, but I have the serial number and included that, so maybe they'll be kind and help me. Probably they'll just tell me I'm fooked. I replaced the phone cord for the modem. So far, so good.
One of the first web design companies I worked for is going IPO tomorrow. Considering they
roundly fucked me as an "intern" at $9/hour, it sorta goes without saying that I wasn't offered
stock options. Oh well. It gave me the experience (of the shotgun-to-the-head variety) I
needed to land me the Autodesk gig which got me my current CNET position, so I can't complain
too much in the long run.
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Tuesday, 8 February 2000 (moving through time) 3:26am i can handle this 11:05am Inasmuch as I slept at all last night, and it was erratic at best, I woke up this morning with my stomach twisting and turning itself into the kinds of balloon animals John Wayne Gacy probably made. I'd had myself a good old-fashioned crying jag before the lights went out, and it wouldn't be the first time I've had something resembling a hangover the next morning. It's a little better than the way my head used to hurt, at least. All the same, Maddy and I started the evil diet today. Her reluctance at the notion of eating grapefruit was almost as palpable as her surprise when she discovered they were actually pretty good. (Turns out we got red grapefruits rather than, well, non-red; it was the only kind the store had, and hopefully it won't make a difference.) The way my stomach feels right now, it's going to be enough of a challenge eating the 1/2 cup of tuna and slice of toast for lunch, let alone being hungry for anything else. My face is healing much slower than the last few times. Trannyshack/Roderick's is definitely not going to happen tonight, though Dana suggested Dark Sparkle for tomorrow evening. Maybe. Right now, my face is a sea of red splotches, each one corresponding to a zapped hair. When looked at with that perspective, it almost doesn't seem so bad; they're spaced out enough to suggest that there wasn't a lot of hair to begin with. In truth, there wasn't. But it felt like there was, and it still does, and will continue to until it's not there anymore.
When will that be? No clue. Phil expressed surprise at just how many of my
dark hairs are hanging on long after they should have been gone for good.
Figures.
My taxes are done. Just have to mail a form tomorrow, and that should be that. I never have understood why anyone would want to wait until the last minute.
Jesus. It feels like my intestines want to leap right up and out of my mouth.
So I'm letting my id get the better of me and I'm looking into DSL once more. The upstairs neighbor, the one who let a cable hang at chest-level in the garage for several months, has DSL. I don't know how this would affect me getting it, if the installation charge will be less because the splitting equipment is already there, or if they'll tell me I can't do it unless he's willing to piggyback, or what. I called Pacific Bell a while ago to look into it, and they said they'd call me back shortly. "Shortly" has long since come and gone. I have no reason not to expect it to be bad news anyway. It's an indulgence, and I can't remember the last time an indulgence didn't end up getting me into trouble. I need to feed the meter. I've probably been ticketed already. My stomach still hurts, which I suppose is helping me maintain the diet, if nothing else. I'm running out of change. I should really just go home, and continue the CD-R battle and whatever other battles may await me. Because there always are, wherever you go. Don't matter where. Y'see, I don't think I ask for too much. But I have no way of knowing.
Right now, I just want him to stop singing. I want him to go away.
Somehow, I managed to down a cup of beets, a cup of green beans and an apple. People actually eat these things willingly? It made me yearn for the simple bowl of cereal which has been my comfort food of late. (Trader Joe's High Fiber cereal. Don't knock it until you try it.) Fairly quickly I latched onto the idea of washing each bite down with water. Perhaps the vast quantities of salt involved had something to do with it, but there's something about having a mouthful of beet that reminded me of having a mouthful of seawater. Not a pleasant experience. All it took was one pink backwash into the bottle of water to convince me to switch to diet coke through a straw for washing-down purposes. It may not seem the same as an hour on a treadmill, but in its own way, it was just as grueling. If it's a crutch, it has serrated blades for armrests. As Maddy observed, I ate the icky stuff first: the beets and green beans (slightly more palatable, as things with chlorophyll often will be), the apple (the first apple I've attempted to eat in twenty years; oddly enough, I love applesauce and apple juice, although the mere sight of apple cobbler makes me retch), 3oz (nine thin slices) of chicken and a half a cup of vanilla ice cream (the first regular, non-reduced fat ice cream I've eaten in many months). My stomach was protesting the whole way through, as it had been all day long. Suffice it to say, my bowels are not happy with me. I can only hope that whatever it is makes its way through my system post-haste, preferably doing as little damage as possible along the way. In any event, Day One was a success. I'm not expecting to weigh myself in a week and observe any actual weight loss (in spite of everything I've heard), but it's still worth a shot.
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Monday, 7 February 2000 (all apologies) 9:52am Aaaargh. Okay, I managed to retain my W-2's and all three 1098-E's (you get to deduct interest paid from student loans, not a bad deal seeing as how my mom paid for much of my loans last year). That's the really important paperwork, and considering that they arrived erratically over the last month and I have no apparent organizational skills, it's an impressive feat. Except, now I can't find the postcard the IRS sent me with my super-secret code number for filing online.
My father's a Certified Public Accountant. I don't know if that's relevant or not.
That struck a nerve. Then again, I was a bundle of exposed nerves, and they weren't hard to strike. Suddenly, it all came out. I went with it.
That night, The Ex and I went to Shrine. (We rode in the same car, at least. She found a ride home. I didn't ask.) I made my first and last attempt to initiate a romantic relationship with Summer; it failed miserably, and though there were no negative repercussions on our friendship, it hurt very badly. The following night I went to Sanctuary, a club which is now very much defunct. As I was leaving, Marion called my name, ran up to me, hugged me and asked if I was going to be coming to Bound the following weekend. It was a wonderful moment, and perhaps the closest thing to a conncetion I'd felt to another human for some time or would again for an even longer time. When I got home, my mother's reply was waiting for me.
And that's how I came out to my mother.
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Sunday, 6 February 2000 (jesus doesn't want me for a sunbeam) 6:15pm Atypically, Phil started with my neck yesterday. I'd already taken three vicodin so I was a little more prepared that I might have been otherwise, but it still came as a surprise. He was extremely distracted, mostly due to problems at home. I almost got the feeling that it would have been wiser for him to have just cancelled his appointments for the day, though at the same time I'm glad he didn't. Since I'm extremely selfish and want this all done as soon as possible. For the first time in what seems like forever, I held it together while being zapped, even though we were talking about some very depressing stuff, some of which hit a little closer to home than I would have liked. Every break we took, I popped another whole vicodin. I ain't gonna let it start. My skin is much redder and much more sensitive than the last time, probably because he neither had me put an icepack on it immediately afterwards nor did he use the hardcore orange antibiotic which makes me look like I have leprosy for the next few hours but makes the healing process speed up that much more. Heck, he didn't even put the EMLA-esque painkiller on my lip (which makes me look like I'm in one of those goddamned "Got Milk" ads) as usual, just the spray stuff and zap zap zap. I didn't object, though. Wouldn't have been much point, and since this was going to be a three-hours session I didn't want to hold things up any more than absolutely necessary. Madeline and I got out at about half past five, and rather than attempt to cross the Bay Bridge we stayed in the East Bay for the evening. The Old Spaghetti Factory had been done, so it was on to T.G.I. Friday's with us. (White trash is as white trash does.) Stares. I'm used to stares. Nothing new. I'm a freak. I realize it. As the busboy is clearing off our table, in a voice which suggests an intelligence just barely beyond the "touching hot stove makes ouchie" level of decuction he asks me if I play guitar. I say that no, I don't, but I get asked that question quite a bit. Almost true: I used to get asked it a lot. Not so much these days. He says I look like that guy in that heavy metal band...after a very brief round of twenty questions, we realize he mean Nikki Sixx from Motley Crue. Today, Maddy and I are in Trader Joe's. The clerk is one of the particuarly yappy variety. He says that he hasn't seen her and I in a few weeks. Frankly, I didn't recognize him at all, but whatever. He's being friendly, and not quite cloying, so I can't complain too much. He refers to Maddy's "distracting" Betty Page t-shirt, and starts talking about a friend of a friend who looks just like Betty. "I mean, a dead ringer." I decided against telling him that I've been compared to Betty, since in my current state of bangs demolished and partially sticking out from under the damn beret and my face looking like I have the worst case of acne in western civilization, it would have been unfair to put him on the spot like that. Which, naturally, got me to thinking about how long it's been since anyone compared me to her. A long time. A very long time. Last spring, maybe. That was how Summer first described me to Madeline at Convergence V last April, even, and I know she still uses that as a reference point when talking about me and always has. But Summer's a good friend, and loyal in that way. The last time I got it from a stranger...I don't know. Oh well. Omelettes and eggs and all that.
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Saturday, 5 February 2000 (something in the way) 4:23am Rain. 11:16am The lesson I've learned the last few times at Phil's: don't skimp on the vicodin. Mustn't forget that today.
Nothing is perfect.
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Friday, 4 February 2000 (bread and wine) 6:48am Ow! Hey, that—
Shut up. You deserved it.But, I—
You know better. 10:46am Guess I needn't have worried too much about Brian being upset about the hours I keep, or the overall quality of my work. When I came in, we instead discussed my self-evaluation, on which I fully admit I've been dragging my feet the last few weeks. It's due today, and I gave him a semi-completed draft, in some ways simply a rewrite/update of the one I did last March. It still needs to be padded out a bit, though.
Sometimes I need someone else to point out the obvious about me, and
in this case Brian hit upon something which I hadn't occured to me:
copyediting. This place needs it, bad, someone who can proofread.
I've always wanted to, and feel I have a strong grasp of English.
(Don't laugh; I'm the first to admit
that I take huge liberties with this journal. That's what it's for.)
It's not quite the same as writing for a living, but it's a step in
the right direction. And putting words together is a more valuable
skill that putting HTML together. So that's going into the "goals" part...
So, a few days after The Ex and I broke up, I emailed my mother, my father and my brother Jonco; barefoot already knew, as I'd gone over to his place for what was to begin a legacy of very bad Sundays. It was a very brief message, simply stating that we'd broken up. I addressed it to my mom and cc'd it to the others. My father and brother both responded privately to me, kindly offering the standard consolations. My mother, however, responded to me and cc'd The Ex. To call this a breach of netiquette is an understatement.
I think the entire office could hear me banging out this reply, which of course was never finished or sent.
But not for another few weeks...
That NEVER has a nice ring to it.
It also appears I might be overcoming inertia. Either that or I'll fail miserably and remain right where I am, and while it's not a bad place, necessarily, it's really high time I start moving a little.
It still felt weird, though, that at a very positive performance review not a word was mentioned
about my appearance, not the three days of growth (admittedly still very thin by most
standards) nor the unusually heavy eyeliner (to offset the growth, duh) nor the sloppily
applied red hair mascara (with barely visible bits of blue thrown in for good measure)
nor fishnet on my arm or red-and-black stripeys for socks or Manson t-shirt. Nothing
truly weird in the context of how I normally dress, just that I'm able to dress this way
at all. I hope I never stop realizing that.
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Thursday, 3 February 2000 (it is accomplished) 10:41am I have an appointment with Phil for this Saturday at 2pm. Ever other week, just like the old days. Well, that's not entirely true: when I was first going, it was more like two or three times a week for about three months, which was necessary to simply get through my jungle-esque facial once. Now, it takes about six hours. Really, there isn't much left to get, and the regrowth is puny at best—but it's there, I sense it, I don't like it and I want it gone. And considering the way this year's itinerary just keeps piling up, I feel owe it to Magenta and Paige and Dana and even my mother to get it over with so I can be somewhat fit for public consumption. Or at least I owe it to myself. If I learned anything last time, it's that I'm not doping myself up enough. More vicodin is clearly called for. The cheeks and around the mouth weren't so bad, but the neck...and there's still a fair amount of neck left to get. Besides current clients with appointments before or after mine, Phil's completed clients often stop by during my sessions. I don't mind this at all, as it tends to be the only contact I have with other trannies. Oh, I could have been more involved with the transgendered community but decided not to. I don't regret the decision, but once in a while it's nice to see others, and usually I'm able to keep the mental "I'm so much cuter than her" or "that bitch, she's so much cuter than me" comparisons down to a minimum. In addition to being just plain wrong (shallow? who, me?), it's arguably unfair since many of them are much older than me. One of whom visited on Saturday during my session. (Came to see Phil, of course, not me.) She was about 65, and only post-op a couple years. Personally, I can't imagine going that long; surely at my age she knew, and if you told me I'd have to wait another forty years to even get started, I'd likely choose to eat a bullet. Which just goes to show that she has much more intestinal fortitude than I do, borne out by her references to a long military career. Christ. I can't even fathom ROTC, let alone...maybe at that age, you have a greater appreciation for the sociological miracle that is transitioning. I don't know, but I'm still extremely glad I was born when I was. In many ways, I've never truly played the traditional male role, not having served in the military or been a husband or father or any of those things. And I can't imagine doing them, or even being remotely happy in the attempt. Shortly before our falling out, Sondra suggested that I "try being a man first." Considering that I was 24, I'd figured I'd been a "man" for about as long as I cared to be. In fairness, the kid still had a lot of issues to work out, not the least of which was her strong denial of her own real nature. As it happens she was the one who pointed me in Phil's direction, though she insisted that she would never use his services since her ability to grow facial hair was too important. Phil tells me now that Sondra is a client of his. I haven't spoken to her in almost two years, and I hope she's doing all right. I suppose I could contact her... Anyway, she (the older TS, whose name escapes me) arrived a couple hours in, and seemed astonished at how calm I was. In fact, I don't think I was even gripping the sheet at the time; I was just kinda lying there minding my own business. I got a kick of it, actually, though she was long gone by the time I started writhing.
Haven't shaved since Wednesday morning, so Phil will have 72 hours of growth to work with. Yuck.
My roots are also coming in something fierce, and for some reason I've been feeling compelled to
wear my hair up in a high ponytail rather than under the beret, meaning the encroaching brown
hair is really hard to miss. However, I've rediscovered the trashy magic of hair mascara, so
in addition to the roots I have streaks of a metallic red in assorted places. Might as well
go all out; it's not like I'm going to be impressing anyone with my oh-so-dazzling beauty
in the near future...
So I'm going to do something I probably shouldn't, and not for the right reasons: a diet. Nothing at all wrong with dieting, but it's one of those dodgy, "scientific" diets. I got it from Tania, for whom it's worked quite nicely, though she's not someone whom I've ever thought needed to lose weight. It's as such:
I don't much care for beets, green beans or apples, but y'know what? I can do this. Mileage will of course vary, but Tania lost 8 lbs in the course of a week. I'm a solid 20 over where I'd like to be. At least. If not more. If I could drop 40...though this wouldn't be the right way to do such a thing. A good jump-start, and sometimes The Goat must be appeased. (Has anyone else seen The Last Party? Didn't think so.) As Maddy pointed out, weight lost in this manner has a tendency to come right back. True. But my regular appetite these days isn't quite as voracious as it seemed to be in the latter half of last year.
Yeah, it's a crutch. It's instant gratification. Sometimes I get very tired of being patient.
I was reading a particularly nasty John Shirley story and listening to nine inch nails' The Fragile at the time, so that might have had something to do with it. Indeed, some people would say I was getting what I deserved for listening to nine inch nails at all. Two different Walgreens locations, and no Jessie dolls. They both had Buzz and Woody—hell, one of them even had the horse. But no Jessie. What's up with that?
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Wednesday, 2 February 2000 (disturbed) 5:56am I think I understand what I'm doing. 9:49am No Roderick's last night. Tempted, almost, didn't. The Big Guy is gone. At the very least, his desk is completely cleaned off. Not in the sense that my piles are rearranged, but it's empty. If this means he's moved elsewhere in the office, company or world, I do not know. The Fidget Queen remains steadfast. Worst case scenario: he moves into The Big Guy's old spot. NT does not like zip drives and/or Iomega software. Have you ever felt impotent? Not in a sexual sense, but like you couldn't move forward and you couldn't move back? Some months ago I'd attempted to go the 24-Hour Fitness on Ocean (the location closest to me) very early, like 4am, and discovered they were closed. Unusual, since once upon a time I would get there at 3:45am. No signs stating why they weren't open, all the lights were on, but the doors were locked and nobody was inside. I went home, called the main number and was told they were closed for construction between 2am and 6am every day. I don't remember when this was and don't care to search through my old journals to find out, but it was a while back. So I called them just now. "Hi. A few months you were closed from 2am to 6am for construction, and I was wondering if that was still the case." "It's not for construction, but we're always closed from 2am to 6am. That'll never change." "So you're the only location in the chain that isn't open 24 hours?" "That's right. Though when the location next to us opens up, it'll be open 24 hours. It's still under construction." Not for constuction, huh? "Do you know when it's expected to open?" "There's no date set. It's still a tentative opening." Oh.
the further i fall i'm beside you
The rules have never made sense to me. I wonder if I'll ever understand them, if I'll escape punishment.
They'll turn on you and skin you alive given half a chance.
it's because they owe you nothing. they're not here for your sake. 1:23pm I should call Phil. I need to get zapped. I'm getting a little scared, though. More specifically, I think I'm getting a little scarred. Noticed it last night, to the left of my chin. Pitting. Electrolysis is a violent, invasive procedure. Tissue is destroyed, and in theory it should heal up without leaving a mark. It's possible to escape without being scathed, but it doesn't always happen.
But that doesn't mean I'm going to stop, or could even if I wanted to.
I told my mom about the engagement being over on xmas, 1998. Perhaps not the best time, but she kept making references to us getting married, so it had to be done. As I've ranted about on more than one occasion, her ourpouring of disappointment and disapproval (directed towards me, not The Ex) is permanently burned into my memory. First the hair, and now...what had she done to deserve this? A few days later she wrote. This was my original reply, unsent because I could never quite finish it.
4:30pm To home, now. 7:00pm Just called my mom, ironically, to see if any of my student loan tax forms have arrived at her place rather than mine. They haven't, but she had some interesting news: she'll be in San Francisco for real this April. An extended family gathering of some persuasion, having something to do with her cousin. Many old German people of various levels of relation will be there, plus my brothers and our associated SO's. Coincidentally, this will be taking place during her 60th birthday. I decided not to tell her about Magenta's fashion show, which will take place a month later. As always, one shock at a time. Anyway, it sounds vaguely intriguing. To her credit, she didn't even remotely imply that she wanted me to dress down, and she made it quite clear that Madeline was invited as well. (Maddy unintentionally scored points when she commented that my mother looks much younger than she actually is. She swears she wasn't trying to suck up, honest.) Guess a lot can change in a year.
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Tuesday, 1 February 2000 (the promise of shadows) 9:38am Remember trying to learn to spell "February" in school? Or "January," for that matter? Why does the year have to start off with such unnecessarily complicated words?
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