So, here’s the point.

I walk into someplace, and I have no idea who I am.

Oh, it’s not that I don’t have a clear self-vision and identity.  I know myself.

What I don’t know is how I fit into the worldview of all the people in the room.

Last night I walked into “The Bing BamBoo Room Modern Burlesque.”  Last time I went there I ran into someone I knew, another tranny.

This time, nobody.  So I sat and watched the cliques and gangs and couples and straight guys & gals, even the gay guy painted gold and standing on a box — a Halloween Oscar.   And I had no idea how I fit with any of these people.

I went and talk to a gal at the MAC counter just because I needed someone to smile at me.  Michi was lovely, smart and stylish, abnout my age.  We knew the same people and she was trying to place me — scared CD or gay drag queen.  Those were the two choices.  Without makeup on I was a CD, but with makeup, a DQ.  But like her former manager, I am neither of those things, even though I have basic merit badges in both.

But when I tried to explain where I fit, it was all mumblemouth and messy, with no touchpoints whatsoever.

And when I sit in this bar figuring out who I should smile at and how they will read it, well, well… well.

No good answers.

But my arm hurt and the vodka just gave me calm without buzz and it was time to go and change back in the car under the high tension lines and wipe my face with McDonald’s napkins soaked in mineral oil.  Between MAC micro glitter, cake liner and eyelash adhesive, it takes a bit to clean.

No pictures, no acclaim.

And in relationship, well, I have no idea who I am.

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