Winter, Snowiness, Transgender Crap, this is fun

This is how I feel today for some reason.

Now that I’ve got that settled, I can move on. It’s officially winter, don’t listen to the calendar, trust me, I’m right about this – looking outside, I see a cold, snowy neighborhood, and ice clinging to the branches of the trees. We had a big snowstorm a few days ago and most of it is still hanging around, except it’s all solidified, with some rock-hard ice thrown in as well, which means people are slipping onto their butts left right and center, and the walk home from school takes probably 90% more concentration than usual. The temperature hasn’t dropped into the negative double digits yet, at least, but it can only be a matter of time – usually after Christmas is when the -30 degree weather starts to kick in, and us northeastern Ontario people are turned into blocks of ice waddling around attempting to still drive our cars and stuff.

The thing is, the last few winters I’ve been at home, unhappily curled up near the heating vent, encased within the well-insulated walls of the apartment – but this year I’m back at school so I have no choice but to venture out into the cold (at least until teleportation devices are invented). I don’t really mind in the grand scheme of things, but it’s definitely a change from before, when I never went outside, to now having to go outside all the time, and brave the elements in the meantime. I’ve never been great at braving the elements. I had a huge winter coat-snow pants issue when I was little, and it took me years to accept that they just can’t be anything but puffy and vaguely uncomfortable. It’s part of Asperger’s syndrome, being hyper-sensitive to your clothes, and I suffered some pretty extreme winter coat aversion all throughout elementary school, to the point where I threw tantrums because it stressed me out so much. It was pretty silly, but I remember how incredibly angry I was about it, back then. I still have issues with clothes in general, and I’ve been wearing the same sweater at least once a week for the last four years. It has giant holes in the elbows and the sleeves and my mom keeps joking that it’s going to spontaneously disintegrate someday. She doesn’t want me to wear it to school, but my counter-argument is that it’s my ultra-comfort-sweater, which immediately dulls my anxiety. That’s actually true, as depressing as it might be. I’m wearing it right now because I felt anxious earlier. Now I’m not anxious. Ha!

Today school went fairly okay. I did badly on my Shakespeare test because I missed a few days where we were reading it. Among all my scholastic shortcomings, at least I’ve got a good memory for words – and I might be horribly ADD about mostly everything, but not when it comes to Shakespeare. It’s probably because it’s something I like. Anyway, we did some menial activity about relating Othello to other literature in English today and somehow I received the honor, among my group, of presenting our ideas to the class. Good, pick me – nice choice, unknowing tenth grade English class kids. But I really like the one guy, Abraham, and I completely foresee a possible back-up friend situation with him in the future – meaning, when Zoe and Borong aren’t around, I can go to him if I need a partner. It’s nice to have other options, anyway. Zoe is great but I almost feel like I’m cheating when I’m partners with her, because it’s not really challenging in a social way – and then Borong is definitely cheating because she’s the nicest, quietest Chinese girl who ever lived. And that’s saying something because I’ve probably met at least five other nice, quiet Chinese girls during my years at school who were also the nicest, quietest Chinese girls who ever lived.

Last night my cat slept at my feet the entire night. I think he just likes my cozy anxiety-blanket. It weighs a lot, and has little pockets full of beanie-things. He was adorable. I think he periodically forgets that I exist, because when I come downstairs after being in my room for a while he runs halfway up the stairs and stares at me with amazement – then he follows me into the living room and wants me to pet him. Cats have strange little minds.

You’ve now reached what I’ve recently dubbed the “Transgender Crap” section of the blog. I wonder if I should get a little jingle and a slogan to announce it. You know what.

cellar boy presents

I drew this on a sticky note once. ^

“The Transgender Crap Section (of the blog)”

to the tune of Row, Row, Row Your Boat.

Trans, trans, transgender section of the blog

Gender, gender, gender, gender, 

I am like a frog.

Nailed it. Talk about spontaneous inspiration. I AM like a frog, too, because I’ve learned, through reading random, bad-smelling, ancient copies of National Geographic from my dad’s old basement, that there are some species of frog that can, in the right environment, apparently change their gender. In all other ways I am not like a frog at all, except for my bulbous eyes, long sticky tongue, and skinny green legs. That was a bit weird.

So, now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say. It’s kind of my tradition to devote at least a few paragraphs about my various, desperately annoying transgender issues, such as they are – I write about it mostly so I don’t explode from nerves, and I find that it actually kind of helps. Despite opening myself up to all the possible hate of the internet at large, I still do it, if only for my own sake. It’s a really hard secret to keep, especially now that I’ve accepted it’s true and have made my rough plans for the future. (I’m going to grow an old-fashioned mustache, as previously stated, and run away to Alaska to drive dog sleds and hop in train cars. But not actually.) The other day my dad visited, and we walked down the busy street that cuts through the heart of the suburban sprawl, to the Tim Hortons; and we sat down for about an hour talking about life and stuff. I had lots of opportunity to blurt ‘HEY DAD? I’M A BOY!’ but I didn’t. I don’t know how to tell him, which is strange because we’re so close. It has to be a thing he’s considered, he’s super smart and he knows all about my aversion to being girly – but still, I haven’t told him yet. The only people in the world who know are my mom, my psychiatrist, the guidance counselor at school, and a handful of internet people who I don’t care know about it.  I’m not sure if my teachers know, although I’m about 75% sure my history teacher said ‘Bonne fin semaine, mon cher’ today. She’s said ma chere before, which is “my dear” in French, except for girls – but “mon cher” is for boys. I don’t know if she said “ma chere” like usual and it’s just wishful thinking on my part, or if she really did drop the “hey I know about it, wink wink” hint. If so, I don’t care – in fact I’m relieved. She’s one of those ultra-nice people that is so nice you can hardly accept that they’re so nice.

Meanwhile, I’ll have to wait and see about my English teacher. The thing is, the English language doesn’t have feminine and masculine words, so it’ll be harder to know for sure, if she’s not outright calling me “he”. French is great for that because you can slip in little “mon chers” here and there and nobody will be the wiser.

As far as the bathroom problem goes, well, I’ve got my special “you’re a minority!” bathroom on the second floor, which I can use if I really have to. The good news is that I’ve still got my bladder of steel, so I’ll probably get by without needing to. Part of Asperger’s is a general aversion to germs, so even nice bathrooms that are shared with multiple people don’t totally fly with me. I don’t know how regular people do it, how they stomach the grossness and just go. Also I don’t know how regular people can go through life having no bathroom issues at all, and have never stood in front of the two doors really having to pee and thinking ‘Oh no, oh no, oh no, uh-oh, crap, I hate genders.’

Anyways. My appointment with Dr. what’s-his-face draws steadily nearer – though, and this really figures, time seems to have slowed down just to make things more difficult for me. November’s been a slow month, and I feel like December 18th is still a long ways away. Meanwhile, I’m skipping along feeling like Mr. Verve from that video up there – in other words, weird, musician-like, and generally annoyed. I feel like he’s really annoyed about something, and has told himself ‘You know what, screw it’ and that’s why he’s striding down the street knocking into people.

Unfortunately I’m a pretty long way from ‘Screw it’ – I’m still at ‘Things suck and I’m a weird musician walking down a street.’

All righty then. See you later.

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About thecellarboy

17. I write, play music, and have a cat that likes to bang his head against doors until they open. View all posts by thecellarboy

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