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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