are u a pat hug, rub hug, squeeze hug, or no hug kind of person?

HAVE SOME PRIDE: A COLLECTION OF LGBTQ+ POETRY | available for purchase on amazon, createspace estore, and kindle ebook for 2.99!. if you already have a copy of my book, feel free to leave a rating and review on goodreads or amazon!

Sometimes I hate being trans. A lot of the time, actually. While everyone else is moving forward, you’re feel like you’re waiting, waiting, waiting. For the next GIC appointment. For hormones to show any effect. For surgery. For the next surgery. For forms and reports and assessments to be filled out.

These things take weeks, months, years. Whole parts of your life get eaten away on waiting lists for services that are already stretched to their limit. And all the time you want everything to stop - to right itself in some magical overnight miracle. You spend nights crying and asking ‘why me?’ Why am I the one who has to be stuck here? 

But you will get there. I promise you. Nobody knows patience like us trans folk. We have to be strong, mentally, emotionally and physically, because we are forced to be by our very nature. It’s something huge to bear and it’s okay if you’re not always okay. It isn’t fun, and it isn’t fair. And it’s okay to grieve - for being born with the wrong parts, or for all the times that your body restricted you in life - for the things you wish you had. Grieve if you need to. 

There is light and dark to everything in life. Being trans is no exception. Keep going. Wait and fight and grieve and celebrate and live - in the way that only we trans people know how. 

You’ll come out stronger in the end.

Can I donate my menstrual cycle to a misogynistic white middle aged male

For that "glitch in the matrix" thing going around

Not me, but my mom.

In 1972, she ran away from home. She was gone for several months, and when she got home my grandmother started shaking her and screaming about how someone had told her my mother had no shoes and my grandmother was sure it meant my mom was dead.

She finally calms down, and they piece it together: my grandmother had gotten a phone call from someone who breathed two or three times, said “Cathy’s in bare feet,” and hung up. Except that’s not what they said–my grandmother had written the date in on her calendar, and on that date my mother was in Bare Feet, Arizona. She knew definitively that she was in Bare Feet because on that date she called home to talk to my grandfather, who told her Uncle Jim had died–“got himself shot”–and that she had missed the funeral. Ready for the glitch in the matrix part? Here we go:

–My grandfather had no recollection of the conversation–which would have been a strange conversation indeed, since Uncle Jim was still alive and, in fact, didn’t die until 2009, eight years after my grandfather. However, my mom did miss the funeral, thanks to a delayed flight. Cause of death? Supposedly, it was suicide, but there were enough indications for the family to believe that was a pile of horseshit, not least that shooting himself in the head with the rifle indicated would’ve been near-impossible.

–My mom was going by the name Patricia Danko when she was on the run–she had a fake ID and everything. She hadn’t called herself “Cathy” since leaving home and nobody knew she was traveling under an alias.

–According to my mom, she never gave a name for herself–either Patricia or Cathy–when she was in Bare Feet, and she would’ve had no reason to. Bare Feet had maybe a hundred people in it, and they were just stopping for food and gas.

–This isn’t just an account from my mother–my dad was with her at the time, and he remembers both the phone call and the truckstop.

But that’s not the weirdest nor the creepiest part, which is this:

–I’ve been trying for three years to find Bare Feet, Arizona–on the Internet, on old maps, by talking to old Arizona cowboys, and there was never a Bare Feet, Arizona. My mom convinced my dad to drive “through Bare Feet” on the way back from Texas in 2013 and there was no town anywhere along the highway, not even the abandoned bones of one. I’ve looked for Bare Feet, Barefeet, Bear Feet, Bare Feat, Bare Foot, Barefoot, and Bear Foot. None of these exist.

My mother stopped in a town that doesn’t exist, ate in a restaurant that never was, made a phone call that could not have happened and was apparently answered by a ghost from 40 years in the future, and later that night someone called my grandmother from a number that turned up on her phone bill only as a pay phone in Arizona to say that single sentence, “Cathy’s in Bare Feet.”

Please don’t infantilise trans guys. Especially trans guys in their late teens/20s who look younger than their cis counterparts because of a lack of T. If you treat a cis boy as mature, you better not talk down to a trans guy of the same age as if he’s somehow more ‘innocent’ or in any way less mature just because he might not have the “”“signs”“” of being a grown male.

its also harmful in a way that you are disregarding them as adults. For example, if you wouldn’t be involved with a cis guy that age because you’re a minor or younger then DONT date a trans guy the same age just because they don’t SEEM as old, keep in mind that they’re just as capable of exploiting you. Just be careful friends.

Imagine watching Nicky Wire trying to use the self-checkout machine at Tesco. 

“It is in the fucking bagging area you CUNT”

I CANT BELIEVE I USED TO RUN THIS BLOG LITERALLY DELETE ME

and yet I see cunts posting shit about how "this isn't a political issue and anyone who claims it is political is disgusting". prime example of sheer close-minded privilege. fuck right off

@the.shane.smith

Definitive 90s’ tag yourself. Reblog or I’ll kick your ass.

protip: refer to all your mistakes as “artistic choices”