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No sushi at Camera Obscura as far as I could see. Of course, by midnight it was difficult to see very far, as it was packed with everyone in the Bay Area who owns a piece of black clothing (and a few who don't). It's okay, though, because I'll be getting my sushi jones taken care of today, as we're going to Santa Cruz to have lunch with The Ex and her boyfriend at The Pink Godzilla. (Seems all four of us have free time on the weekdays now.) Might as well hold out for the real thing. It's a fundamental impossibilty to overdress at Camera. For me, anyway, and try as I might, my best never comes close to good enough. Of course, this may be what Embeth has been trying to tell me about the problem with comparing myself with others, and she's not the only one. Sometimes, though, it's all about simplicity. I was utterly slain by a girl wearing an uncomplicated black one-shoulder dress which I've coveted ever since Helen Hunt wore it at the 1996 Emmys. (If it helps me retain any cred, that's all I remember from any Emmy show, and I haven't watched it in years—I watch very little television, so awards shows mean nothing to me. And at least I remember the important stuff.) I pointed it out to Bellacrow as we were standing outside with Yen, analyzing the fashion parade around us. She said it was simple enough to make and would look for a pattern. This is the part where I don't get my hopes up. Anyway, with the Maritime long since gone, that's another door closed on my babybat days. 10:55pm Last night, I found myself wondering, Is this what grown-ups do? Are we actually adults? It sure is different from how my parents made it look...
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I still pee standing up whenever possible. Obviously in a public restroom with more than one stall I don't, but if it's a single seater I do. Besides the fact that my personal gender identity remains the same either way (I don't feel any more or less female whether I'm sitting or standing), the fact of the matter is, it's impossible for me to empty my bladder when sitting. I have no idea why, but I always need to stand to get the last few drops out, and if I don't I'm very aware of it. Sometimes it's not an option, but I try to when I can. I'd imagine it has to do with the interaction of the urethra and penis with gravity, or something like that, and that if I ever get surgery the problem will be solved. I've never heard a genetic girl complain about it, and I'd hate to go through life always feeling like I need to start planning my next trip to the restroom. I don't need a vagina that bad. What brings this all to mind is that, for the first time since before I can remember, I can see my penis when I look down. Normally I can't unless I suck in my stomach, because A) my stomach has always been big and B) my penis has always been small. Well, the latter is just as small as it's always been (wouldn't have it any other way), but the former hasn't been this flat in years. This is a very good thing. And, of course, I can see my ribs. I always get nervous when I can't see my ribs. I'll admit the possibility that I've been suckered by what the media tells me a female body should look like, but even if I had conclusive proof, it probably wouldn't change anything; this is as close as I've ever been to how I've always envisioned myself. I don't know, maybe I'd feel differently about it if I was born female, perhaps I'd be more comfortable with my body's imperfections (as slowly increasing numbers of women tend to be these days), but I wasn't—I was born to be a genetic male built like a brick shithouse, and in my mind looking large equals looking male. (That applies only to me. I know plenty of large women who are obviously just that.) Hence, a slight potential for overcompensation. But I think I'm doing okay right now. 10:40am Camera Obscura, the club that replaced Roderick's, is closing tonight. It had always felt like Roderick's to me, and as such I was fond of it, though of course I didn't go enough. (As I understand it they're not closing because of poor attendance, so at least I don't have to feel too guilty about it.) Though I'm not expecting there to be one, I'll be keeping an eye out for that tray of sushi, like my first night there. For old times' sake.
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"Sherilyn, I'll bet you knew who Budgie was." So said cohost Tara Jepsen as I was getting onstage, rather than announcing that I'd never read at K'vetch, as is tradition with virgins. Maybe I just look like I've done it before. Anyway, it was a callback to a story Lynn had told earlier in the evening about auditioning a new Tribe 8 drummer by telling them to play like Budgie (amongst others), and she'd kindly explained to the audience that Budgie was Siouxsie Sioux's drummer in the both the Banshees and the Creatures. Evidently I struck Tara like someone who knows their goth band trivia. Can't imagine why. I replied that I did in fact know Budgie, but I had no idea who this "Siouxsie" person was. Ba-BOOM! Thank you! I'm outta here! No, actually, I was just starting, and getting to riff off Tara like that helped set me at ease. I'd hoped I'd get introduced by both her and Lynn together (Maddy had gotten a great, bouncy Lynn intro complete with an unsolicited kittypr0n plug), but Lynn was getting ready to head out to a Tribe 8 gig in Oakland. On the plus side, he waited to leave until right after my performance, which was terribly sweet. Whether it was simple courtesy or because she genuinely wanted to hear it, I can't say, but either way I'm grateful. Okay, imagine you're on the stage. Got it? Right. Michelle and Rocco were in the front at the foot of the stage, Lynn and Chupa were off to the right by the front door, Shauna Rogan (who had read right before me) was sitting next to the pool table, and Maddy was at our table about halfway back on the other side of the room. Although I was trying to look up from my pages as much as possible, I probably didn't make nearly enough eye contact with the audience, and my relentless pacing didn't help much either. I couldn't help it, though. I either paced or my head would blow up, and I decided to go for the less 'splodey option. I did notice about halfway through that Maddy was gone from her chair; it turns out she'd merely moved a few feet over to the chair I'd been in, but to observe that fact would have required me standing or looking in one direction for more than half a second, and that simply wasn't going to happen. All I knew was she'd suddenly disappeared, though I figured there was a logical explanation for it. I could see Shauna the best, so I tried to pay attention to her reactions as much as possible without, well, looking like I was paying attention to her reactions. She laughed at the jokes and looked appropriately horrified at the right times, and overall the immediate feedback, the laughter or the occasional gasp, was what I'd been hoping for. As compared to my ill-fated attempt at stand-up in '97, during which I think I got one slight chuckle. It's no wonder it took me five years to try something like it again. The original, turgid version of what I read is here. A few lines were changed, of course, and I improvised a bit here and there, but that's pretty much it. Not helping me stick to the script was the fact that the lighting on the stage is somewhat dim, and the printout was on gray paper, not white. My bad, that. And never mind the fact that I couldn't just hold the pages in front of me—no, I had to keep lowering and lifting and waving them around for effect. Hence me say "constantly crying wolf" rather than "compulsively" as it was written. The line still got a laugh, at least, and that's what mattered. As I was exiting the stage, Tara said I should consider making a short film out of it. Considering that a short film of her own had been shown at the Festival as part of Straightsploitation, I took that as a high compliment. If I'm proud of anything about my performance, it's that what I read had nothing to do with me being a tranny. There wouldn't have been a problem if it had—it's a queer open mic, after all—but it's been done, and I don't necessarily want to be associated with it right out of the gate. I'm sure it'll come up later on, but I'm glad I started with something a little more universal. Maddy read a poem about the early, rough days of our relationship, garnering a collective "Awwwwww" at the end. Which it very much deserved. We both made a point of making sure the audience knew who our pieces were about; it seemed important. If I have any regrets, it's that I forgot the camera—it would have been nice to get pictures of both Maddy and I onstage. Speaking of pictures, although Diane and Pam weren't able to make it, the photographer from the party and her girlfriend coincidentally were. They said the pictures of us were the best they took that day, and we gave them our contact info. Yay. My favorite comment about my reading came from Chupa, after I told her I'd never done it before: "You are so not a virgin!" Trust me, it was all about her delivery. Someone asked me if it was something I'd consider doing again, and I assured her it was my first time, not the only. Indeed, we've been invited to read at the open mic at Dalva on Thursday by the person who runs it. Obviously one doesn't needs to be invited, but it's nice to be welcomed.
Afterwards, we grabbed a bite to eat then followed Chupa to The Lexington Club. It was packed, as there was a benefit for the St. James Infirmary, a health clinic for sex workers. Even if I hadn't been wearing my heavy velvet coat I probably still would have felt comparatively overdressed, populated as it was with strippers and those who Wanted to Just Look Like One, but that's okay. I went back to the Lexington, and that was important to me. Didn't see the woman with the dog around, but there were more than a few trannies. Works for me. 12:28pm According to the landlord, last month's electricity meter reading came out to 32% downstairs (us) and 68% upstairs (them), and they were on vacation for two weeks. I think that means we win. sometime after midnight
as we were talking outside it was cold we were shivering yet warmed by the subject matter
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Jonco and my niece Nicole are visiting today, so yesterday was all about cleaning the apartment. We probably would have stayed in afterwards and enjoyed our newly sparkly environment had Charles and Annalee not invited us out to dinner. Neither of us were feeling entirely up to it, me a little more than Maddy, but the promise of pasta was enough to convince her. Besides, they're moving to Boston soon, so we figured to take the opportunity to hang out with them while it was available, although it's only a temporary move while Annalee takes a nine month position at MIT. Both of them made it very clear that they're not ready to move away from San Francisco for good, however. At Annalee's suggestion we met them at The Lexington Club, a gruff, hardcore dyke bar in the Mission. We'd never been before, but knew that Lynn didn't go anymore because she got tired of all the cattiness and Oooh, lookit who Lynnee's dating NOW-type gossip. I can believe it. Even as dead as it was at seven, the vibe was very different from a place like the nearby Sacrifice. Wouldn't be no kittypr0n played at this joint. As we walked in, one of the few sets of resident eyes—a woman at the bar with a dog at her feet—locked onto us and didn't let go, at least not until she turned on the tractor beam. So we're having drinks with Charles and Annalee before going to eat, and after having been studying (us? me?) the entire time, the woman brings the dog over to sniff me. Sure, okay. Unfortunately, in encouraging the dog to investigate me, she keeps saying "Do you like him? Does he smell good?" Sheesh. Twice in as many days, and although I do believe that the night before they were honest mistakes, it's getting tedious. Ugh. Fine. Congratulations. You read me. I'm really a boy. Swell investigative work, Jim Garrison. I politely correct her. Then she asks me if I'm employed. Even though nothing good can come of honesty in a situation like this, I say I'm not. She asks me if I'd like to be. I say that it depends on the employment. Do I like dogs? She asks me this as I'm petting her dog. I say I do, but not as much as I like cats. She says she's looking for someone to manage (?) her dog-walking company, and I appeared to be the perfect candidate, especially if I "got made up all pretty-like." Seems her customers go for that sort of thing. I can just imagine the sales pitch: With our deluxe package, you can get your dog walked by a genuine lipstick lesbian! Or a reasonable facsimile thereof, in my case. After getting it right a couple times she was reverted back to the male pronoun, which made it all the weirder: was she hitting on me, or just mocking? She didn't seem like the type to be into femmey boys, and that was clearly how she regarded me. I mean, it doesn't take very long for most queers to figure out that I'm a tranny, but usually they roll with it and figure out the proper pronoun without having to be told. The others said she was hitting on me, but I'm pretty sure I was being made fun of. From there, it was to a pasta place up the street on Valencia. Good stuff, though I found myself searching the menu for the v-word. It wasn't there, but "meatless" was. A meatless lasagna isn't the same thing as a vegan lasagna, but a little (or lot of) cheese now and again won't kill me. It's certainly made its way into any of a number of the burritos I've had lately. Probably a better standard to use would have been something light on the sauce, and neither the red pesto on mine nor the alfredo on Maddy's fettucine qualified. And we paid for it later, especially on the drive home (I am so so so glad we drove). Our bodies simply aren't accustomed to rich foods anymore—it's all about rice and veggies these days, it seems. Which isn't a bad thing. We'd originally planned on just meeting them for dinner, but we were pretty well into the groove of things afterwards (and our stomachs were feeling just fine, if full), so went in search of a non-caffeinated beverage. We ended up at a place which I'd surely walked by countless times over the last few years but never really noticed: The Oxygen Bar, which may or may not symbolize everything people outside of California think about how we live. They serve aromatherapized oxygen. Through tubes. Into your nose. (You get to keep said nose tubes, and get a discount if you bring them again. The place is so Californian it hurts.) And they also have a wide range (well, a range) of teas and stuff, which was the primary reason we stopped in. Annalee offered to treat us each to a ten-minute hit of oxygen, though, and how could we possibly turn down an offer like that? I'll admit, I was a little disappointed. It was pretty much like having tubes blowing a light, somewhat scenty steam of air into your nostrils. In fact, that was exactly what it was. It was neither a rush like nitrous, nor did I get psychotic and scream "Baby wants to FUUUUUCK!" like Dennis Hopper in Blue Velvet. I hate it when movies lie to me. At least it wasn't on my dime, and now I know. 9:50pm Things went well with Jonco and Nicole. We took the train into the Castro to eat at the Bagdad Cafe, and the ride was one of the more urban I've had in a while, with pills of indeterminate origin on the ground, a flamingly gay couple sitting across from us, and someone pissing in the bushes as we exited the station. I also got the impression the neighborhood hadn't quite recovered from Pride Weekend—even by Castro standards, it was feeling extremely queer. Naturally, it reminded me of why I love this city. After Bagdad we went to Stonestown so Nicole could get her mother some "real San Francisco sourdough bread" from Boudin, and did some impromptu gown browsing—she says she'll be coming back up to shop for her winter formal and prom dresses, which sounds like a lot of fun. (More fun than I had shopping for my prom attire, that's for damn sure. Trying on a tux was one of the wronger experiences of my life.) Having time to kill and wanting to avoid holiday weekend crowds (hence getting the bread from a mall rather than the more traditional Fisherman's Wharf) we wound up at the Holy Cross Cemetery in Colma. I'd never actually been to a cemetery before, let alone one of the legendary Colma ones (I feel like such a bad Bay Area goth), and it seemed like as good a place as any. Nicole seemed to enjoy it, which is what mattered. She promised to take us to her favorite Chinese place next time we visit to try their fake chicken, as well as to take us to her favorite thrift stores. We'd been tossing around going to Fresno in the near future anyway to visit my mom (since our weekdays have opened up considerably), so that's all the more reason. (e) tells me that at 6' I'm an inch taller than her but weigh the same, therefore I should stop complaining about how much I weigh. (She is, for the record, very much not overweight. Which reminds me, I need to get a picture of us together. For reference, y'understand.) I didn't have the heart to tell her that I'd fibbed a little yesterday and that I'm actually closer to 6' 1/2", though I don't suppose it would make a difference. Besides, at this point, even I'm willing to admit that I don't need to lose any more weight. Now it's all about keeping it off, and trying to get the midsection into shape. Still, today I was wearing a midriff-baring top which I'd gotten from Dax without feeling self-conscious, so I guess I'm doing okay.
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In retrospect, it was for the best that the (heretofore unmentioned) pot brownies at Diane and Pam's place had been so weak; I would not have wanted to be even a little bit stoned at that moment, wandering around Dolores Park. My nerves couldn't have handled it. Eventually we saw some people we recognized from the party. They weren't sure were D&N were, but thought they might be over by the benches. Woohoo! An actual, concrete (well, wood) landmark. Now it was just a matter of finding said benches. The benches were right about where Pam had told me they'd probably be staked out, and so were her and Diane. Part of me expected them to say, "Oh, it didn't work out so you come crawling back, huh?" I'm sure such a thought never went through either of their minds. It was native only to my own. We stuck with them after that, following them as they interviewed people for their documentary. They were happy to have us along, and for the second time that day a camera was turned towards us. (Technically, the first time the camera stayed in one place and we were put in front of it, but pick pick.) Neither of us have much experience with dyke porn, though before I transitioned I was something of a tranny porn afficionado, and Diane was happy to have me talk about that. Nowadays it doesn't do much for me—or, at least, I assume it doesn't because I don't have any desire to seek it out—though I don't have anything against it, either. The Other considered it to be The Most Icky, Disgustingest Thing Ever. Of course, her opinion of it probably changed the following week, and I wouldn't be surprised to discover that she eventually did some herself. It still astonishes me that she went on to strip. But I digress. A while later I noticed a girl standing off to the side holding a small green accordion. Her girlfriend was being interviewed, so I went to her and asked if she'd heard of Miss Murgatroid. Yep, she's a fan; I wonder if it's even a theoretical possibility to be a dyke accordionist and not like her. I mean, it's not like there's a lot of role models out there. Not that you have to play the accordion; I had her on the CD player in the car when (e) and I went to House of Voodoo, and she recognized it. It's always nice to find people who share your obscure interests, as (e) and Embeth both do. I doubt it happens quite as often in the straight world, if only because they're so much more, well, obscure. If it isn't advertised on a billboard, most people don't know it exists. Anyway, she said Miss Murgatroid was one of her inspirations to buy an accordion in the first place. We talked about her music and droney music in general, and I was surprised to discover that she'd never heard of Miss M.'s Myoclyonic Melodies album. When she said that she lived in San Francisco and got cable (that's a first), I handed her a kittypr0n flyer and told her we'd be using music from Melodies in the next couple months. Which is true; one of the things I actually managed to accomplish on Wednesday night was recording the audio for #7, which uses both Miss Murgatroid and a local spooky ambient group called Agness. Her eyes widened as she looked at the flyer, saying "This is your show?" Turns out she'd heard of it and had been wanting to see it. It felt very random, and I found myself wondering how many other people in the park at that moment were at least aware of its existence either from Annalee's column, flyers, or just someone mentioning having heard something about a show on public access that's all cats. It's interesting to think there's a meme bouncing around out there which we started. She said she'd read about it the show Annalee's column, and said that while she'd never met her before, she had a "virtual crush" on Annalee, and wanted to (I'm quoting) "fuck her mind." I'm pretty sure she meant it as a compliment and didn't actually have any intentions of squicking Annalee. So I assured Charles when I relayed the story to her the following evening at Freeloader, anyway. We talked for a while longer—her girlfriend had a lot to say about dyke porn, so we had plenty of time—and she suggested that if I like droney music I look into an act called Cat Power, though not simply because of the name. I'm willing to believe that, since I've been considering using Birchville Cat Motel on the show, and the name is coincidental. Still, it's one of those things you have to be conscious of to avoid steering into America's Funniest Home Videos territory. Eventually the March began. Actually, it had been going on for a while before we joined in, but that's okay because it's pretty long. The timing was perfect, however, because after less than a block, we ran into Embeth and Shrike, who were happy to see us. Diane and Pam had already started to drift back a bit, doing their documentarian thing, so we glommed onto Embeth and Shrike. I don't think Shrike would have had it any other way. As we approached (e)'s place, the fire escape was suspiciously full—it seems the party had begun in the interim. (e) waved at us and shouted "Congratulations!" We briefly discussed going up there, but decided against it. We'd already dropped the bone into the water once that day trying to get at our reflection, and weren't about to let Aesop kick our ass once again. Besides, it felt like a good current we were riding, and I doubted (e) would be too disappointed. (In some other reality, we left Embeth and Shrike and went up to (e)'s. I wonder what happened next.) Along the way we encounted Rae and Ilene, though they bounced back into their own stream, as did Dax we when ran into her in the Castro. Our little group seemed to be established—in addition to Embeth, Shrike and us, there was Shrike's girlfriend Ladybug and their friend Buttercup. I was in the main Pride Parade in '97, and it was interesting, but not an experience I've been dying to repeat. It's kinda sterile, sponsored, regimented, patrolled, branded. This felt much more organic, which it was, without alcohol company money or clueless coverage from local teevee. (We watched the broadcast of the main parade the next day, and it was obvious that that while the local media personalities who were hosting it were enthusiastic, they were also patently clueless. One of them had no idea how to pronounce PFLAG, cautiously spelling it out every time just to be safe, and the other made me feel uncomfortable when he used the word "queer." It just didn't sound right coming from him.) It was tens of thousands of primarily queer women (mostly queer, mostly women) making a lot of noise. It was sublime. And it's always going to be our anniversary. Like Easter or Mother's day, our anniversary is going to be whatever day Pink Saturday is, typically the Saturday before the last Sunday of June. So there'll always be a March and a big party on our anniversary, and we're guaranteed to see lots of friends. Can't go wrong with that. Even though the March itself isn't officially sanctioned in the manner of the main Parade, it does coincide with the official street party of Pink Saturday, meaning rows and rows of port-a-potties. Upon reaching the Castro we headed straight for them. Us and everyone else, that is; on nights like this or Halloween I always wondered what percentage of people are in line for the restroom at any given moment. When The Ex, her cousin Gloria and I went into the Castro for Halloween '98, at least half the time was spent in various restroom lines. Just another reason I'm glad I don't drink, although there wasn't much for me to do at the time. After about ten minutes in line, it was realized that it would probably be quicker just to go back to Embeth's place. The walk from 18th and Castro to Dolores Park isn't an especially long one, but when you've already been walking up and down hills more in one day than you should in a week, and you're with a group of people who take long strides, keeping up can be positively tortorous. I could tell this just by looking into Maddy's eyes as she struggled wth the pain in her back and neck. I told her we could go slower, but she didn't want to slow everyone else down. She's a hell of a trouper sometimes. After biological needs were attended to at Embeth's, a decision had to be made: return to the Castro and plunge into the madness therein, or stay here and relax. Majority rule resulted in staying at Embeth's, which was fine by me. First there was a quick beer 'n' snack run to the nearest open liquor store, which was around the corner below Diane and Pam's apartment. So many neat people living so close to one another, not to mention Rocco and Michelle are about to move just a few blocks away from there as well. Oh well; I'm still very happy where we are now, and if we were forced to move out, I doubt we'd get so lucky as to end up out there. So we spent the remainder of our wedding day sitting on the floor of Embeth's tiny kitchen, sitting and talking with old friends and new, listening to Godspeed You Black Emperor!'s f#a#(infinity) as Embeth's cat Jupiter found a new home in Maddy's lap. It was a perfect moment, a logical and satisfying culmination of the day, a safe and warm place far from the darkness and anger and hurtfulness of the bad people in the world (you will never bring us down to your level), and I didn't want it to end. 6:21pm So I'm on the train last night reading Lynn's Godspeed when a woman asks me what book it is. I tell her, and she says she thought that's what it was, having just read a review of it. I'm not sure if she means the interview Michelle did with Lynn for the Guardian, but that seems most likely. Anyway, I tell her it's a great book and I that strongly recommend it (which it is and I do). The interesting thing is, neither Lynn's name nor the name of the book are on the individual pages, so the woman has identified (or at least made an educated guess about) the book just by the style of the writing alone. Not bad, and I hope I helped Lynn get another sale. We were actually on our way to A Different Light to hear Charles read from her book The Lazy Crossdresser. I'd mentioned on Sunday night that we were going to be trying to make it out there, and she was very happy to hear that, so of course that meant we had to go. We wanted to anyway, and I'm glad we did since not too many other people showed up. I get the impression that it was still a better turnout than her last appearance there, which had been at 6:30pm on Pink Saturday. Lord knows we were distracted at the time. After the reading (and getting a copy of the book signed), we went out with Charles and a couple other people from the reading. We ended up at the Mint, a karaoke bar literally at the foot of the U.S. Mint that we hadn't been to since Jayne's birthday party last year. At the time it shared space with a burger place called Hot 'n' Chunky, which in the meantime closed and was replaced by a sushi place, and a mediocre one at that. Not all that bad, but not good enough to make up for the loss of Hot 'n' Chunky's french fries. More Maddy's loss than mine, it's true. Maddy had no intention of getting drunk enough to go on stage, but since I don't drink at all I figured I should generate my own courage and give it a shot. I chose David Bowie's "Ziggy Stardust," although considering how I was dressed it was probably more reminiscent of the Bauhaus version. Hole's "Malibu" and Dylan's wonderfully bitter "Positively 4th Street" (which I was very surprised to find on the list) were close contenders, but I figured "Ziggy" was the shortest, had no long solos and was a comparative no-brainer. Besides, I was already planning on performing in front of an audience at K'vetch, so this might help me get the jitters out. Or reinforce them. Worth a try, anyway. It was fun, though I think I might have gotten a little too much into it, moving and jumping about, frequently going away from the monitor so I couldn't hear myself but still having to keep close enough to the screen so I could read it without my glasses, because I know every word by heart when I'm singing along in the car but I'll be damned if I could remember the next line with that Mr. Microphone in my hand. I didn't sing anything else, because while I could reasonably fake my way through "Ziggy," I was afraid I would almost certainly crash and burn on something like "Malibu." (Hey, at least I know the first line!) (That's a joke which only makes sense if you know the song.) Onstage, I felt an adrenaline rush which made my entire body tremble; Charles and Maddy assured me they couldn't tell, although when I sat back down all Maddy had to do was touch my arm to feel me shaking. I wonder if it'll be like that on Sunday. sometime after midnight I was walking down Haight today when a guy said "Hello, sir." I hadn't shaved, nor was I wearing any makeup, not for skin reasons like on Sunday but out of pure laziness, and I was wearing jeans a black shirt underneath a coat. My hair was down, but I guess that didn't do the trick. Fine. A reality check, a little reminder of what some people will always see. It's never pleasant, but it's frequently necessary. Anyway, I didn't respond. I don't respond to everyone trying to get my attention when I'm trying to walk down the street, since I usually have a destination and can never have enough on me to accomodate everyone wanting my money, Then he said, "May I speak to you about Jesus?" I snarled back over my shoulder, "No, you can't." What I really wanted to do was go back and knee him in the groin for even presuming to waste my time with his missionary bullshit. I really, really, REALLY hate that. I don't give a damn what he or anyone else believes, but I do not appreciate any attempt whatsoever to convert me, save my soul, or simpy tell their own particular intrepretation of the Good News. Whatever it's called, I already got the memo, and I don't need random strangers trying to tell me what it says. If not readily accepting someone else's Lord and Personal Savior makes me closed-minded, fine. I can live with that, and whatever happens to me after I die is my concern, not theirs. Fucker.
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