Someone Hits Me

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Date: 2008-10-14, 6:00PM EDT

Once Upon A Time there was a Tranny named Callan:

He was very very bitter because he was unable to be truthful as to who he really was, and how he really treats people. Remarking and bad mouthing people in his online WordPress blog, thinking that anyone really reads it, he would go on and on and on about people, places and events to which he never had the courage to attend himself as ‘herself” to which the response is always the same: stay in and bitch about it on his pathetic blog entitled,” The Loneliness Of A Long-Lost Tranny.”

Now people around this self-proclaimed Lost Tranny already KNEW that this was just another case of a poor self imaged tranny who doesn’t have the guts to stop freeloading off of his 80-something parent’s income, and go live the “independent girl’s life.” Instead he finds himself unable to become close to women of any kind. And this even includes those in “his” inner circle. Feeling constantly like a failure for not REALLY coming out to the world about who HE really is, the best thing “he/She” can really do now is put down all the women(both male AND female) that HE/SHE knows.

What’s it like Callan to live such a pathetic life, reciting fiction-truths about those around you who are actually LIVING their own lives? You know, the ones who aren’t afraid to be “out there” in the world with all of their imperfections and all while you stay in night after night only being able to “imagine and write away” how the rest of the real world is living their lives?

Tsk. Tsk. You’re not even a decent man and hardly a believable Gossip Girl.

Indeed Lost Callan, you truly are…..a lost soul indeed………

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  • Last Piece Of My Heart

    I take care of the people around me.

    It is important to me for them to not only be cared for, but also to feel cared for.

    To that end, I am selfless, sacrificing for them.

    But there is a part of me that I hold close, for myself.

    That part is the experience of my femme heart in this world.

    I don’t share it.

    It’s too dangerous to share it because, being femme, it is way to exposed, vulnerable and tender.

    It’s that heart that stops me from building another shell that looks like a normative guy in the world.

    I just can’t do that again.

    If I can’t tell my truth, no use to be out.

    To my family, though, the idea that I hold this close is selfish.

    After all, my not getting on the grid is about them, isn’t it?

    Why won’t I just serve and comfort them by assuming a normative shell?

    They don’t like to see me suffer.  They don’t mind if I suffer, they just don’t like to see it.

    My sister wants me to tell her that there is no way I could engage dying.

    I can’t tell her that.  And that upsets her.  She thinks I am trying to manipulate her emotions.

    (Ready?  Here it comes, the most insidious manipulation of all)

    After all, if I really loved them, I would do the simple and normative things they ask, right?

    If I really loved them I would do whatever makes them happy, whatever the cost to me, right?

    I must be very, very selfish not to give up that last piece of my heart.

    All they want is what is best for me, and if I won’t give them that, what kind of asshole am I?

    I’ll tell you.

    I’m the kind of asshole who holds on to the last piece of her ragged heart, just like I clung to the last piece of the pink satin ribbon that bound my blanket as a child, the ribbon I would hold as I sucked my crooked index finger.

    I fought giving up that ribbon forever, holding onto tatters and refusing to give it up.

    And now, that’s the way I hold onto the last piece of my heart.

    It’s about me, not them.