My Big Fuckin’ Fag Flag

I wear it around my waist. It billows around my legs. It is my skirt, and it is fantastic.

I need to get more skirts, more leggings. I want to wear them every goddamn day. Not because I look amazing in them, although when I wear them sometimes I catch a glimpse of a life that might have been out of the corner of my eye, but because they’re a goddamn statement.

Yes, I am an exotic superqueer doublefag (or “tranny” if you prefer to be laconic). Yes, I work here too. And if you ask, yes, my stats are better than yours. I will correct your pronoun use. I will repeat my name loudly, because I am April like the month! and I will do this as long as it takes. My hair is pulled back by my scrunchy of doom, and sometimes I’m even wearing makeup (although you wouldn’t notice because you’d expect me to look like a goddamn circus clown).

Here’s the thing about flying your colors: people notice, and they react. There are a few people here who used to speak to me a lot who don’t speak to me anymore. There are a few people who never spoke, but never noticed, who now notice, mostly to grimace in that way that says “I am deeply uncomfortable with you being here, but I’m going to pretend I’m okay.” There are people who talk to me just as much as before, either by choice or because we share a cubicle and I ain’t going nowhere.

I haven’t won any friends doing this. But I know the ones I’ve kept are good. And I feel safer, like every day I do this without incident proves there’s nothing to be scared of. Someday, I hope to not be scared to use the bathroom.



I have become obsessed with my reddit karma score. I check it more often than I check my email. I need to know I’m worth something. I need to know that people like the things I say. It is consuming me.

I have a friend who, in my less charitble moments, I think poorly of for how insecure xe is. Then I check my reddit score. Because, you know, I’m so self-assured.

The part of me who is desperate for someone to love thinks that having a relationship would solve this, that if I had a girl to come home to I’d know I was worth something, and wouldn’t need this number to prove it. It is, of course, bullshit.

How do I stop this? How do I feel like I’m worth something without a number telling me so? I want to believe I’m worth something.


One day, we will win. Nobody will be forced to suffer through the wrong puberty, and those of us who realize too late we were on the wrong path will be given all help necessary to correct our course as soon as possible. There will be no stimga, no shame. It will be a thing of healing and celebration. We will be loved.

One day, our culture will all have a coming of age process that involves some deep thinking about what gender we are. Everyone will be encouraged to think it over and make their decision, and it will be respected. Children will not be asked to articulate the reasoning behind their choice. Nobody will be forced to choose before they are ready; and everyone will be allowed to change their mind.

One day, we will be safe. We will not live in fear of being clocked for trans. We will be assured that, even if we are visibly queer, we will be no less respected for it. Our careers will not suffer. Our families will not be considered weird, unless we want them to be and make a point of eccentricity.

We will win. The realities of today will be a horrifying warning from the past. We will win.

And On and On Again

I’m better now. My birthday proper was actually quite nice. I went to a nice concert with two of my friends. Got sernaded by the band and everything. Three days later is when I fell apart. This happens every other week or so, although usually not so bad. Proximity to my birthday was certianly an aggrivating factor. I get shaky and sniffly and feel vulernable. I curl up and  And, apparently, I sometimes commit terrible poetry. (Q, I am so very sorry.)

I feel like I have acomplished nothing. It does not help that many of my friends from college are becoming rediculously acomplished badasses. (Go, Sam, go! Rock that fuckin’ Bar! Teach the shit out of those kids, Kayt!) And here I am, struggling through a job I hate, no end in sight.

It could be worse. I could still be homeless, a state in which you have nothing but free time that you can never enjoy because you’re so freaked out about being homeless. Now, I at least can come home and enjoy myself.

Or, I can, when I’m not having a fragile day. You’ve now all seen what happens when I have one of those.

And on and on it goes.

A Proliferation of Aprils

When I decided on my new name, part of me was happy that I had found a traditional, but unusual name.

Now I see Aprils fucking everywhere. Not kids, but adults. Walking around with my name. It’s not as bad as my old name, but still, there are scads of us out there.

Where were you bitches all hiding?!

Um, Oops.

So it looks like I’ve made a mistake. Turns out I’m not trans after all. Sorry for the confusion, everyone. Please start calling me a man again.