A Chinese woman came up to my mom when she was pregnant, put her hand on her belly and said that I was going to be a boy. After stuff like that I can’t help but grudgingly admit I might not know everything about the universe.

So, how I hate about pages. What am I supposed to write? What does the internet expect out of me? I don’t know. I’m Brynn, and I’m seventeen. My cat just ran into my room (he’s learned he can force his way in by banging his head hard enough against the door) and I leapt up from my chair to stop him because I’m trying to write a personal thing here, and he went to launch himself onto my dresser and look out the window (that’s his favorite thing, he’s like a drug addict, with windows) and I put my hand out for some reason, and he jumped up and smacked his own face. Now I’m letting him look out the window because I feel terrible.

Now that I’ve got going, I can write some more, I think. I’m going to get my driver’s license soon (as I’ve said for the last year) and maybe I’ll convince myself to grab the car and drive away. Away, away – South Carolina. I don’t know. Somewhere cool. Life isn’t that great (big surprise? I’m a teenager?) but at least I’m back at school finally. I missed a couple of years. Grade twelve/eleven is unexciting. I’m transgender. If it bothers you, then maybe you should read some more so you know how normal (and stupid, and frustrating) it is. At least I can keep my gender-neutral name. I think that’s unintentional foresight.

I don’t care if you stick around, I’ve been writing blogs like this for years and I’ve learned they get zero attention (not like I really want it anyway) and that most people don’t care about my unimportant whinings. I got rid of the old one because I referred to myself as a girl there. Here, I’m the cellar boy. I wanted it to be “attic boy” but that was already taken – and let’s be honest, if it was a choice between the two, I’d definitely spend my time in the cellar.


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