Later today, Vash is coming over to pinkify the rest of my hair (except for the bangs). That'll make all the difference, right?

8:59am

Mr. Steve's photos from Working for the Weakened are up.

For now, though, you were puzzled by a certain aspect of the goth scene: the g-word. As in "goth." People hated it. Some preferred the term rivethead, and others adopted the clunky Not-A-Goth. Which was all fine and good, except you couldn't quite grasp why they were going to goth clubs and subscribing to goth mailing list and posting to message boards and going to Bauhaus or Siouxsie concerts if they loathed the idea of being goth so very much. What was the big deal? What was the harm in the word? Admittedly, you were biased: you actually liked this most controversial of syllables. As the years passed, you and the scene drifted apart due to mutual apathy, but you would feel proud whenever someone described you as goth. You weren't trying; you were just being yourself, they parsed you as goth, and it was all good. Presently, while still in the thick of things, you got no small kick out of being the only person wearing black eyeliner and stripey tights when you went to see R.E.M. or Neil Young.

There were those outside the scene—Norms, you called them semi-privately—who would give you shit about such things. you like bob dylan? that's not very goth! You never really grasped that, and in some ways it wasn't so far off from the kid in high school whose personal mission was to wean you off Pink Floyd. It wasn't that your fondness for them impacted his quality of life in any way. Perhaps if he walked past your desk in certain classes, he might see the newspaper ad for the show you couldn't afford to see taped to the inside cover of your binder. That was how he discovered your bad taste to begin with.

Eventually, you realized what the deniers and Not-A-Goths were so afraid of. If they identified as goth, they were somehow compromising their freedom. The word, the dreaded label, had some sort of power over them.

Sure—if they let it. Didn't make a whole hell of a lot of sense to you. You wondered if this was because they tended to be straight (some of the girls were bi-curious on paper, but eyeliner and occasional poofy frills notwithstanding, there was nary a boy who took it up the ass to be found) people who didn't have the experience at transcending labels and imposed concepts the way you imagined queer people had. You didn't actually know many other queers or trannies, and were just getting started yourself. The freedom it promised felt like a breath of fresh air which you were only just beginning to inhale.

And indulge in the freedom you did, being not just the only goth at the Neil Young show but also appearing as female for the first time to a number of your friends. You sat with your recent Ex-fiance, held hands at times, felt each other's pain as Neil sang "Harvest Moon," which was to be your wedding song. After this journey through the past, you went to Shrine of Lilith, your favorite goth club, surely the one person there who'd seen Neil that night. You embraced the contradiction, reveled in it, unable to fathom that there were those who might not.

This is not so much a confession as a statement of fact. I wanted to, but it didn't happen. I was running late this morning, as my body insisted on sleeping longer than usual to combat the cold (I was woken by an unintentionally well-timed phone call, knocking me out of a dream just as I was starting to make out with my friend Christa), and I figured I could vote when I got home this evening. Except that my Kaiser appointment ran late, and by the time I got home, the polls had closed. Whoops. Perhaps it's just as well—I probably would have voted for Nader or something.

Aside from keeping me from my democratic duty, the Kaiser visit was good. I'm as healthy as a horse (and hung like a My Little Pony) and clean. The doctor seemed a little skeptical when I told him that I don't have sex with men (and I decided not to explain why men who identify as gay wouldn't want anything to do with me in the first place), but he assured me that since I only sleep with women, my chances of catching anything are considerably lower. That, and the fact that I'm, like, safe and stuff.

He also switched me from premarin to estradiol. My main reason for doing so is financial: it's hella inexpensive compared to premarin, or at least compared to what the Hun charges for premarin. I'm a little bummed that it's synthetic, though. There's no animal cruelty involved? What's up with that? At least premarin covers up a multitude of sins, y'know? well, i probably shouldn't do this bad thing, but hell, every day I ingest a drug which is derived from the urine of pregnant mares, and I'm pretty sure they don't wait for the horse to go to sleep then put its hoof in warm water. After that, nothing seems quite so bad. Alas.

I'm starting on an estradiol dose equivalent to premarin, and if my body reacts well (which I know it will), we're going to ramp it up. See if I can grow a cup size or two. Maybe then more people will get the "girl" thing.

Shortly thereafter, standing with a group of other readers and friends and feeling generally good about myself and things, someone referred to me as "him." Doesn't take much to knock me down. The trick is to always get back up.

Afterwards, Vash and I joined Dave, Colin and Maddy for a Denny's run. Had a platter of Zesty (zesty, I tell you!) Nachos. Yum. Victory meal.

By half past nine this morning, I was at a Tim & Roma! shoot, but only barely. Back to the other side, y'know? While there, I received a piece of offhand news which was not unlike getting hit with a clownhammer. Again.

On the train ride back home, standing next to the driver's door, three derelicts sitting nearby seldom took their eyes off me. There was much grinning and nudge-and-pointing and ...has a dick... murmuring. Back, as I say, to the other side. I glanced down a few times at my crotch. Nope, smooth line, not a hint of bulge. Must have x-ray vision or something.

Tonight is the Borderlands reading for the final issue of Morbid Curiosity, and tomorrow night is Invasion U.S.A. at Bad Movie Night. Monday, I exhale.

Tomorrow morning, we'll get to her office by six. I'll drive her car back to the Black Light District, where I'll change into what I want to wear at the show that night, or at least something different. My preferred pair of shiny pants (which is to say, the only one that fits) is starting to quite literally come apart at every seam, and it's probably composed more of electrical tape than whatever material it is that Lip Service claims to be PVC. I'll then turn around and drive back to Vash's work, and she'll drive me to my office, getting me here just in time for the mandatory eight o'clock meeting, a continuation of this morning's meeting.. What could go wrong? Nothing. Nothing could go wrong. Don't even ask questions like that.