John is like the Huggy Bear of the porcelain throne set.
And if that reference goes over your head, then you are way too young to be reading this blog, so off with you. Go on, shoo. Go back to emoji-ing on your smart phone in an effort to avoid developing real world communication skills.
Good money that “female” is actually code, if not down right foot in the door for “transgender.” Because, hey, why not? Millennials eat that crap right up. If you want to sell something today, just stick a “gender dysphoria” label on it and watch it fly.
“Gender confusion” has taken the place of “autism” as the trendy mental disorder of the day. When will it by my turn? I’m sure “Crabby ass bitch” has to be on the DMH list somewhere. Sure, there’s always “passive-aggressive personality disorder,” but being a pain in the ass won’t get you a telethon.
So now we’re may well get Doctor Who/What/WTF? (And nerds, please. No nitpicking about how it doesn’t matter because DW is an alien that has no gender anyway, because, shut the fuck up.) I don’t care that much anyway. The last time I watched these shows was in the mid 70s, when we had Tom Baker, and what’s his face Pertwee with the white hair, which looked outstanding on my 4 inch black and white screen. His son now plays “Edgy Alfred” on Gotham, from what I understand, along with the kid who played Kiefer Sutherland’s pain in the ass kid, “Jake” on “Touched,” who coincidentally had autism and was also a pain in the ass… My head hurts.)
Hey, I was mistaken for male long before you got a parade and a cookie for it. Never exactly dripping with femininity (my parents even gave me an androgynous name, “Pat.” Like they knew something. My genitals were fully female and intact, but I guess they took one look at my face and decided they didn’t want to deal with it.
When I was six-years old I was standing on the line at Bamburgers, waiting to see Santa, when an elf with really big tits (funny how these details stick out), said matter of factually to my mom,
“Oh, a toy for a little boy?” and before she could object, said elf handed me a wood crafting kid instead
of a boring and stupid plastic doll with a hole cute in it’s ass so you could pretend it was peeing. Excellent.
A good toy. A really good toy. Just because I was ugly?
In that moment of revelation, it occurred to me that I could definitely work this to my advantage. And I have. Oh. you had better believe that I have.
Farewell, supposed female imprinting. I hardly knew ye. Bitch
No makeup meant I could sleep later in the morning. No high heels meant I could actually walk without twisting an ankle, or, at the very least, not make ridiculous little clicking sounds, warning everyone that a lady was approaching, so hide the porn.
Male clothes were cheaper, looser, and let’s be honest, just looked cooler. Plus, they allowed me to use the men’s room at concerts and the theater, thus avoiding the lines in the ladies’ room. Excellent again.
Even John calls me his “so-called wife.”
I don’t wear a wedding ring.
I kept my given name after we were married. Not so much as a statement of feminist pride or a testament individuality, as much as his last name is damn stupid white bread garbage).
I sleep in my own room.
I don’t shave my legs.
John has has never seen me in a dress. He has told me on several occasions in his assinine pomposity, that he suspects he actually married a small man with “guy boobs.”
He thinks he’s funny. He’s not, of course. He has two Masters degrees, which just makes him self-important. “Funny” will happen when he’s blind-sided by the divorce papers. But I digress.
I should be more pissed than I am, and he should be more uneasy than he is. But we have such a good time going to scifi cons and comic book movies, mocking them as we down pizza and fake beer, that neither one wants to push the issue.
Hey, why ruin a good thing?