The entire situation right now is fucky. It’s been hell trying to get my damn ID sorted out, I’ve got some weird health shit going on (I need scopes and there’s an ultrasound result waiting on me to get the results on right now, as in right now, right now right now), and oh yeah, my shrink backpedaled on getting me to that gender therapist. So that’s a thing. (Well, technically it’s not a thing, but you get the idea.)

My knees are getting worse, and then there’s the new variable, a back injury from a forklift accident at work that I was stupid enough not to call workman’s comp on.

Yeah, go ahead and brain me with a pow hammer for that one. I was a freakin’ idiot there.

The bright spots in my life at least are the cats, one of whom is sitting next to me being a little cuddle box and not questioning the weird glowy box on my lap that has stolen his spot and is now making weird clicky noises as his master’s paws move in weird motions.

*_*_*

I’ve resolved to get myself out of the rut that I’ve fallen into. In the year since that disaster, I’ve almost completely fallen off the wagon of writing, and have had one day where I slipped and had an actual alcohol bender--and remembered why I now hate the taste of most alcohol. So today, I actually came up with a plan:

See, I was the nerd in school who had the Palm Pilot on zer desk, ever ready to take down the test schedule, changes to the syllabus, all that crap. That thing was basically an accessibility device for me, because my short term memory? It’s not great. And while writing things down is a big help on that, it’s not so great if you turn around and forget where you put the godsdamned piece of paper that you wrote it down on *mumble mutter mumble mutter.* So in combination with my smartwatch and my phone, I’m putting myself on an update schedule and a writing schedule so that I can get back into the habit of doing both...because I tend to forget that there are people out there who want to know that I’m not dead, and I tend to forget that there are people out there who actually do want to read what I have to say, or see what pictures I’ve taken.

I guess what I’m trying to say is...

I’m back! :)

*record scratches*

So. You’re all probably wondering what the *fuck* happened to me over these last few months, why I just seemed to vanish off the face of the damned earth out of nowhere like this.

Well, normally this I where I tell you “buckle up because I have a story for you,” but...fact is, I’m tired, downcrank, and just...done in general, so I’m going to give you guys the bullet points version of it instead.

• The factory was abruptly laid off for lack of inventory at an inopportune time.

• At the same time, rent went UP.

• When rent went up, I was forced to try to get it reduced. I began a series of strings of donation drives for survival

• Work resumed in extremely limited capacity.

• Rent increased again. Donations continued. Food was rationed. Eviction threats began.

• Donation drives got desperate. Hours continued to be scarce. Rations continued to be low.

• Second eviction threat hit. Narrow donation save. Begin moving shit out into friend’s garage just in case shit goes pear-shaped.

• Save is ignored. Formal papers served. Told basically pay up or get out. Court date set.

• Attend court. Given ultimatum. Told I can stay if I raise x amount by Y time.

• Succeed. Turn in. Even film it.

• Notice is served on door one week after making payment to vacate in three days. Reason given: ‘undeclared occupant.’

• We move shit out in 1 night.

• I now live on a couch currently and am technically homeless...again.

This is how I began my decade. This is how I end my decade.

For the past few days—probably because it's been close to the anniversary of the dumpage—my ex has been on my mind.

Don't worry, I'm OK, nothing drastic is about to happen nor is it in any way shape or form risky. What's been on my mind are the things about me that probably would have gotten me out of the “relationship” even without the circumstances that there were.

For one: the sexual incompatibility

We weren't exactly sexually compatible, and he just assumed we would be based off of things that he heard about me—and let's face it, that's kind of shitty. He'd heard about my writing and assumed off the bat that I would be some kind of hyper-sexed animal when, in reality, I could take it or leave it for...oh, most of the month. And he was a greedy little punk. So greedy that it the relationship started with—well, you know by now.

STOP MEANS STOP. NO MEANS NO.

After it was all said and done and I found out how he used to complain about my lack of desire (in a tone of “oh poor me,” of course) to mutual friends, I REALLY got disgusted with him. Well, more than usual.

I'm probably somewhere around grey-sexual, if I were to put a name to it. I don't COMPLETELY not experience it, but it is so rare that I'll sometimes

Then there's my gender

And his issue with my attempts to explore it. There were many attempts, and there were attempts at talking, but he would shut me down at every attempt about it. And then there was this attempt at policing what I wore by stopping me from buying argyle socks. Seriously. Argyle socks. He bitched at me for wanting argyle socks. Said they would make me look like Ellen. At the same time he would try and manipulate my wardrobe to make me look more to-his-standards-femme—which wasn't me. I just wasn't allowed to figure things out for myself—which should have been my first warning, but I got into that relationship when I was getting out of another one and that one was coming from a deficit of touch…there's something to be said for bad decisions.

After I got out of that thing I had time to figure out what was going on with myself, especially since there was no one telling me what was isn't or is 'proper' for me to do and be.

He would have had suuuuuuch a problem with me being queer. He pretended to be so progressive but it was obvious there was a problem. I wasn't allowed to explore in any way.

I'm free now, though. Free to be queer me.

That's the other thing, the freedom

I never thought I'd enjoy it as much as I do. I find that I don't care about what people think of me (well, as long as they don't misgender me) as much as I used to. Now that I have the chance and space to be who and what I am, it's a lot easier to just be than it used to be. It's just so much easier, not having to worry whether I'm “enough” to one person.

I just have to be me. Me enough for me. And that's freeing.

Until now I have refrained from commenting on the state of American politics. It isn’t because I don’t have a position (I do).

It’s  because I’m completely terrified of where it’s going.

The nation managed to elect a wholly inexperienced, morally and multiply financially self-proclaimed billionaire to the highest office in the land, a man who bragged on national television about the enormity of his sexual member and bragged (on a hot mic) about how his fame and fortune lets him do anything that he wants to women, up to “grab[ing] them by the pussy” if the notion struck him. There have been incidents of this happening around the nation now, with the only excuse given that “this is Trump’s America now, we can do that.”

As someone who is equipped at present with the aforementioned anatomy, that’s terrifying.

Further, all of his picks for cabinet positions all are unqualified for the positions he’s put them in—it’s like he’s playing a matching game and the only matching he’s doing is to match the least qualified to the office position. But that’s not even the scariest thing about it. There’s a pattern and until recently, it went unnoticed.

Enter Jeff Sessions, a Dominionist Christian who doesn’t believe in the separation of church and state and wants to bring the church’s system into every decision that is brought down. Suddenly, everything is on the table. The governnent is in the bedrooms again, the operating room, the OB-GYN clinic…and this man is even worse than the usual of this sort because he’s been on the side of racists before, having been caught saying he was ok with the KKK until he found out they smoked weed. I don’t care if he said it as a joke…that isn’t a joke that you make in today’s America, when half of America is looking over its shoulder for someone wanting them dead for the color of their skin or the god they pray to.

The next four years will be truly terrifying for me and other People of Color, gender minorities, the disabled, the infirm—and those like me who lie on the border of all of these axes.

All we can do is raise our voices and march, give this new government the “hell no” it needs to hear while we still can.

Makeup.

I'm for makeup. I'm for the otherworldly look. I'm for the natural look. I'm for the somehow-blending of the two (How does Bayonetta do it and is it obvious I've got the girl on my MIND). And I can read between the lines when someone expresses an appreciation of that otherworldly aesthetic, that it is NOT ripping the other looks down and tearing them down.

Of course I got to see that point wildly missed the other day.

I could see clearly just how it could misconstrued, though. I could see both sides. I could also see how far it had been blown out of proportion. My perspective as a womanshaped not woman gives me an interesting perspective on the topic. As a teenager I had to sneak in my make up and I had no interest in the natural look. I would put it on at school, and make it otherworldly as possible. Of course this meant carrying Noxzema with me or else wrath as well. So what if I got looks. It was my aesthetic.

It didn't require validation from anyone—man, woman, or other. It's intriguing that others sign my aesthetic, but that's all it is—intriguing. It does give me a little confidence booster to carry out the next resolution I've got. Last year's was getting more comfortable with my self image via selfies—and that got me more fans than haters.

I definitely don't require validation from anyone for my makeup choices, but it will be an adventure.

More pills than I care to count.

More fluids than I am comfortable drinking.

Skin sloughing off where it most certainly should not be.

And enough fainting spells that that Ion—you know, the kitten?—has taken a spot near the recliner I'm sleeping in tonight.

Despite my best efforts, somehow pestilence has followed me here. My allergy went off and I did a check in paranoia. It either came in from the job or a bus.

It's a fuck of an occupational hazard. And not the only one.

My doctor's oh so brilliant idea to lower my pain management meds led to me having unmanageable pain. My side is worse than ever. The fainting spells are back—not “near” syncope, flat out syncope. I've hit more floors than the bodies in the song.

An exterminator will be called. …here, not the apartment. They still don't have this together.

And I'm fighting two opportunistic infections right now. It sucks.