Monthly Archives: August 2008

All aboard the tranny train!

Remember I was writing all those blogs ago about how postmodernism was messing me up? I think it has come to a head. I think the internet is making me become a tranny.

Let’s quantify. For one thing, I keep track of all the traffic I get to this site, and an awful lot of it comes from people googling genuinely startling sentence fragments* relating to transexualism. There is the acceptable but inaccurate (“tranny blog”); the borderline Bridget Jones (“tranny diaries”); and the alarming-image-provoking (“tranny sleepover”). All this tranny-traffic makes me think “Oh God. If people come here thinking I am a tranny, does that mean I am a tranny? Well, does it!?”.

*(unrelated, but this one cracked me up: “I am totally paranoid if I think google”. Me too, dude, me too.)

Then, I get a message from a good friend, who seemed highly concerned when she found this entry on a confessions site and thought I had written it. Personally, I think I’m closer to this one. And this guy is my hero.

After a two day binge of both alcohol* and buying clothes online, I realise that I JUST LOOK BETTER IN WOMEN’S CLOTHES. I think they just fit me better. I think this is me admitting defeat. I should have known right from the start, when I was given a girl’s Led Zeppelin t-shirt; a ladies’ black, pretend leather jacket which cost buttons from Primark (which one of the girls on my course also has, in an embarassing turn of events); and a haircut, constituting the most dramatic makeover in my own social history. Ironically – due to the haircut – as soon as I started tranning-it-up, I stopped being mistaken for a woman in public.

*(just like Miss Roj in the colored museum! Where is my blackface make-up?!)

I think the jacket and tight t-shirts work well because they accentuate my shoulders, and contrast with my waist, making me look like a junkie. A junkie man. And a tranny. A junkie man tranny. Which, essentially, is very fashionable. A typical night out now sees me basing my clothes and hair on Agyness Deyn, with the whole paint-on jeans and suicide haircut. Does that disturb you? Should I be more disturbed by my own actions? It’s got to the point now, that I’m just not sure if I AM a tranny or not. I mean where is the cut-off point? How does one know? Yet again, I’m struggling to force myself into a serious reality check.

I have struck up a correspondance through YouTube with a (fellow?!) FTM transsexual, and sometimes, when I am in the shower, and I see the drain clogged up with leg-or-whatever hair, and a little bic razor clogged up with follicles and fluff; I question whether or not the hair came from my own legs, from my own body. Evidently, it never does; I live with two women. But sometimes it’s just hard to tell.

I have no desire to become a woman. I have no desire to even consider myself a cross-dresser. I don’t wish to have anything other than what I was born with. Especially down there (even though sometimes I think it’d be cool just to, you know, cut it off. But not for gender or sex reasons; simply for research and giggles). Sadly, due to the internet, I think that my own will is just not strong enough: one of these days, I know, like Winston in the dying chapters of Nineteen Eighty Four, I shall look at myself in the mirror while applying my heavy eyeliner ( – no guyliner for me!) and accept that I am a tranny. And that I love Big Brother.

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Did you just diss me!?

Oh my god! It is like the middle of august already! What a horrible realisation I have just had: this summer has been CRAP!

I decided outright that I was not going to work full-time this summer. Instead, I was going to work part-time because, frankly, I make more money working part time than I need to get by anyway; but I planned to do at least SOME fee-less schill-ing for some newspaper. My original idea was to work with the Sunday Mail, but it didn’t work out. I know one of the high-up journalists at the newspaper, and she has tried to help me out, and apparently someone sent me an email from the news desk, but I never received it. Because I am so self-doubting and lazy, I never pursued it any further until now. Hopefully I can get some work with them during back-at-school time* to help with my dissertation.

*I still have no idea when I go back to uni. In fact, I don’t even know if I will be able to get funding for my final year. Yikes.

So anyway, I have worked part time at Gatsby’s over the summer. I did the same last year, so why is this year different?! Last year, I had Housesitters Anonymous to keep me happy; but this year – what with Bert’s broken collarbone, Angela’s refusal to live in this god-forsaken town anymore and my unfruitful plans to get out of here for at least a few days to clear my head – I have just been bored out of my brain.

I have, however, written loads of poetry and various fragments because of my discovery* of the Moleskine notebook. I have also read a lot of books, owing to my drunken and/or sleep deprived binges on Amazon. In an attempt to get through as many of these books as possible before getting back to uni, I have set myself some very loose deadlines. I originally thought of these deadlines as strict and set in stone, but I have not been penalised thus far for breaking my pledge to finish one part a week in Dostoevsky’s The Idiot. The most harrowing part of this anecdote is that I broke the pledge during my first week. God I wish I was a more prolific reader.

*Is the word “discovery” apt here? I sound as if I have found raw ore in the world of consumerism.

So anyway, during my non-reading, non-working hours (yes, essentially most of my time); I have set about trying to come up with some genuine, workable, viable (easy) ideas to base my dissertation on. I cannot wait to get my teeth into this thing, because for one thing, I am a total geek; and for a second thing, I don’t really think 18,000 words is that big a deal. I mean you only need to type six buttons to express it – three if you knock out the doubles!

Anyway, of all the ideas I could come up with, there are two which I think I could pull off. Maybe.

The first is an exploration of the agendas of free newspapers, such as The Metro and the 5pm Daily Record; looking into how they are made up, why they are distributed, how they make money, political alliances, etc. etc. Basically, I just want to force myself into finding answers deeper than my usual “advertising revenue” put-down. As far as I can see right now, that is the only reason for these newspapers. I am a disdainful, scorning marxist.

The second idea, which would perhaps be easier to write about – perhaps even more suitable for a dissertation – is an essay on how Scottish Politics are reported in the media; especially focusing on the biases of newspapers versus election results.

Any arbitrary information on either of these from complete strangers on the internet would be very much appreciated.

Addicted

I thought I should quantify the last two days. I have done very little. In fact, I could say that I have done nothing. I have spent the last 48 hours in bed. I have spent 24 hours of that time asleep. I have written four complete poems and no blogs in that time. I have eaten two separate packets of Kit Kats. I don’t usually eat chocolate.

Inadvertantly, I have smoked nothing. I never, ever mean to give up smoking, but I am lazy. I could not, in all honesty, face the 15 minute round trip to the Esso garage to get cigarettes, and I think I could call the last two days a minor depression.

I read Ginger Chris’ latest entry about his quarter life crisis and I can totally relate. Blogs just make everyone so emotional and in touch with their feminine sides. Maybe all writers are like this; maybe all writers are just depressing bastards. Hopefully Chris and I come across as “brooding and arty”, as opposed to just “wankers”.

During my entire day spent asleep, I had a number of dreams about still being part of a two-point-four-children family. Strangely, I was part of one of those families who visit my work and eat and complain and pretend they are happy in one another’s company but are so clearly not. I would hate to be back there, in that horrible situation that is forced upon people as the status quo. I don’t think I believe in marriage.

So I got pissed off. I went to the garage, where I first bought cigarettes. I bought them when I was underage, not for me, but for my dad. I bought my Marlboros, for me, and walked home the long way – past where I used to live when I was part of a two-point-four-children, ABC1 family.

There was this song playing on the radio as I wandered through middle-class suburbia, sang by some faux-lower class indie band via BBC Radio One, with the chorus “All these expectations pulling at me/Don’t know how I can hold on”. The people who had bought our old house had knocked down the wall my dad had built and cut branches off my parent’s cherry tree, a long time ago. The tree has grown out again though, and looks like it is taking over my old house. Every draw of the cigarette, and every bar of the song, was sweeter after seeing that.

Evidently, I am probably addicted to nicotine; and if I do not give into the addiction, I overanalyse. Joni Mitchell said something similar in a recent interview with the Irish Times

She remains an enthusiastic advocate of smoking. “How did Ireland give up so easily on smoking?” she asks. “People are going to die of butter, or alcohol, or something. Why pick on cigarettes? I really couldn’t have gotten through life without them, because I have a certain kind of nervous temperament and they calm me. I also couldn’t have done as much, because smoking helps me to focus. I was sitting on a terrace in LA and this guy complains about the smell of smoke. I hadn’t even lit up. Then I overheard him complaining that nobody can concentrate anymore and I said, ‘Yeah, it’s because they’re not smoking’. The world is so full of ex-smokers, I don’t know how anyone gets anything done.”

Also, because I have spent so much time online during my last couple of days, I thought I should share some of the weird things I have come across during my totally uninteresting and inanimate adventure:

“Shoping [sic] Planet” asking “What if you could get paid to shop, eat out and have fun?”. Anyone else thinking prostitution?

This sexy, unconventional map which makes Britain look like an afterthought.

Some gay cutlery.

And, of course, this website – clearly inspired by my uni. Sometimes I wish I was dead.