Mine’s Store Bought…

So, God made me wrong. He gave me the wrong parts.

Bastard.

And I’ve been walking around this 31 years with these wrong parts thinking there was nothing to do about it.

That I was stuck.

Turns out I was wrong. Turns out I have options. Turns out sex shops are good for more than just sex.

We have several “adult novelty” shops here in town, but only one that I would consider visiting by myself, without a weapon. So, I found myself without said weapon at Hustle of Hollywood perusing their goods & trying to look like a decent non-transgendered lesbian. Trying to look as if I were the type of person who were looking to buy a phallic object to stick inside of me &/or my partner for sexual purposes & not for casual everyday wearing in my BVDs as a replacement for what God did not give me. Trying to give the purple vibrators just as much attention as the flesh-tone-with-veins dildos so as not to call attention to myself.

Because one does not want attention called to ones self in a sex shop.

Particularly when one knows that one is the outsider.

*sigh*

Fuck you, God.

So, I found & purchased my first dick, seven inches, flesh tone with veins, balls, that fun ridge on the bottom of the shaft, oh, & a positionable vertebra.

I couldn’t wait to try it out. I got out to my truck, unbuckled & unzipped my pants, & snugged it into it’s rightful place. Right where God had forgotten to put it.

It was near orgasmic.

And I dress to the left.

The positionable vertebra makes it seem like I have a hard-on. I felt like a 14 year old. I couldn’t keep my hands off of it! I drove the entire way home with my hands on my new penis.

It felt so right.

I felt so right.

For the first time ever, I felt whole.

I was also utterly terrified.

I was sure at any moment a cop was going to pull me over & when he did he was surely going to notice the 7-inch hard-on in my lap & I was going to have some explaining to do. All I could think was “stick to a lesbian story, stick to a lesbian story” some bullshit about “my partner wants me to do this, it’s so weird, but it’s what the lady wants!” anything but “oh, I’m a transgendered person” because that just translates to “I’m a freak & would like to be harassed, please & thanks”.

But one did not, in fact no one has noticed. Unless you count the new found confidence I have, people notice that. People notice & respond to that.

So, fuck you God…

Mine’s store-bought.

 

Wilderness Road

It’s that time of year.

That time when every little girl is looked at suspiciously.

Is she packing? Is a Mother, Father, or Troop Leader near by? Can I wrestle away the precious Carmel Delights before her piercing little girl scream alerts the rest of the troop into action?

Or do I just cough up the $3.50?

Decisions, Decisions.

And I’m getting hungry.

Better watch it, little girls, better put those badges away, this girl scout has forgotten her motto.

Born Wrong

God messed up…

When making the Samantha mold he dropped it. And it broke.

He swept up the pieces, applied some guerrilla glue & cello tape, said “fuck it” and sent it onto package & delivery.

And it was okay, I mean, it WAS Gods work. But one thing was off.

He made me a girl.

God, did he fuck up.

And the bitch about it is, he didn’t have the common courtesy to wipe my mind of the I’m-supposed-to-be-a-boy reminders.

God’s such a dick sometimes.

OCD: One Line at a Time

OCD is insidious It tells you “don’t step on the ice or snow in the parking lot because that’s how you broke your back” & that makes sense so you listen. And every time you accidentally step on snow or ice you feel that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach like your world is collapsing.

But it broadens.

It tells you “don’t step on the paint or oil spots in the parking lot for those are slick when wet & you could slip & fall” & that makes sense so you listen. And every time you accidentally step on paint or oil you feel that sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach like your world is collapsing.

But it broadens.

It tells you “don’t step on the lines & cracks in the parking lot & sidewalk for if you do you will get hurt” & this makes no sense but you have to listen. For if you don’t every time you accidentally step on a line or a crack in the parking lot you get that feeling in the pit of your stomach like your whole world is collapsing.

But it broadens.

It says “don’t step on the lines or cracks inside as well or you will get hurt” & it still makes no sense but you listen. For if you don’t every time you accidentally step on a crack or a line inside you get that feeling in the pit of your stomach like your whole world is collapsing.

But is broadens.

You find yourself walking out to your car lost in thought when you are suddenly hit with that collapsing feeling. You almost stepped on another line, a new line, the edge of a shadow.

But it broadens.

Your driving in your car and, without thought, you swerve to miss that line, that edge, that boundary that you’re not allowed to cross. The pit of your stomach is filled with that same dread that sense of your world collapsing.

And you realize…

OCD really is collapsing your world. One. Line. At. A. Time.

Why I love him

Kevin Spacey tweeted…

“Happy Easter. Enjoy time with family & friends – unless u have to work. All should be grateful to those who work if u are free! Peace”.

Which I read… while on break… at work… on Easter.

Need I say more?

My obssesion

Has been refocused.
Dr Oz is on, right now, in the OTHER room. I am busy collecting social networking sites to occupy my IPhone addiction. I still love you, Dr Oz…
I’m just busy right now.

Having said nothing, I have nothing left to say.

I never knew I needed it so bad…

…until I got it.

IPhone 3GS.

Gone are the days of telling people “be sure to text me if you want me to read your e-mail”, gone are the days of not being able to look up any bit of information INSTANTLY, gone are the days of actually talking to people face-to-face.

I text now, thankyouverymuch.

Tweet me on Twitter.

Send me an e-mail.

But, for Gods sake, please stop talking to me.

Honestly, face-to-face? It’s so last year.

Ther-rape-me

For therapy I go to a place that serves low income people, called Comprehensive Care. I do this because, surprise-surprise, we have a low income-mainly from all of my doctor visits and various medical problems.  At this place they base your co-pay on your income.

I had been seeing a lady, Joyce, for therapy, but I tend not to do well with lady therapists. Not that they do anything wrong, I just do better with guys.

I had been out of therapy for about a year because I had been doing fairly well, but June 26th, 2008 marked the one year anniversary of my Fathers death from a sudden massive heart attack and I was starting to slip.

I asked my psychiatrist (Dr. OK), of eleven years, to recommend a guy for me to see. She did and I went to see him on July 1st, 2008. I also asked for a prescription for an anti-psychotic to calm down my thinking and she did that as well.

I begin taking the medications and she goes on vacation.

I start having horrible side-effects; massive restless legs, grimacing in my face, tongue moving without my permission, can’t sleep…I had to take four sleeping pills and two Benadryls before I could.

But I figure I’ll will be able to get something different when I go see this new therapist. He will be able to call another doctor and they will be able to help me.

July 1st, 2008, I’m at work and when 3:30 rolls around I go hop in my rusty-trusty Volvo and head out for the appointment. Keep in mind that this fellow is located in a different section than my last therapist or my doctor. Here is the conversation that I had with the receptionist for his office, Kathleen:

me: [insert name] here for for the four o’ clock appointment with Dr. C.

her: okay, your co-pay is 40 dollars.

me: No, it is five dollars.

her: No, it is 40 dollars. The five dollar co-pay was just supposed to be until you and your husband got married and you were covered on his insurance, then it was supposed to revert to the 40 co-pay.

Keep in mind that my husband and I have been married one year and eight months at this point.

me: I thought this place based your co-pay on your income?!

her: It does, if you do not have insurance. But if you have insurance we have to charge the co-pay. We can’t write that off, if we did that would be insurance fraud.

me: So your telling me that if I did not have insurance I could pay five dollars, but since I have insurance I have to pay 40 dollars?! This makes no sense!

her: Well, I have to pay 30 dollars to see a doctor, and I think that is a lot of money. I wish I didn’t have to pay that much!

me: Let’s be honest, sweetheart, you make a lot more money than I do!

her: Well, you could just pay whatever you can every week.

Yeah, that just what I want to do. Pay this place for the REST OF MY LIFE.

me: I can’t pay that…just cancel the appointment.

I then went upstairsto the area where my previous therapist and my doctor reside and told them what had happened. they said I would need to talk to Dr. C who happened to be there helping a client. He had me come back downstairs with him where he talked to the same lady and this is what I overheard:

Dr.C: Can you tell me what happened?

her: [she went over the same story then added] She has basically gotten away with 840 dollars!

WHAT THE FUCK?! I’VE GOTTEN AWAY WITH?!

me: I don’t think that is a very fair statement! To say that I”VE gotten away with 840 dollars, I didn’t get away with anything! I didn’t do anything, this is your all’s doing!

her: No, of course not…that wasn’t what I meant.

The conversation continued like this, a pharmacy employee walked in and added his two cents then realized whatever he needed to do could wait. I had, of course, started crying and then to top it off I got a nosebleed just standing there. She said “Oh, my…let me get you a tissue!” and I whispered “Just leave me alone!” as a walked out of the room.

I then went to the bathroom and proceeded to have a 30 minute nosebleed, both nostrils and mouth. Blood was all down the sleeve of my new shirt and all over my face.

NOBODY CAME AND CHECKED ON ME.

After the bleeding stopped, I tried to wash out my shirt and then left without saying a word. I still had to go back to work, but I needed a new shirt and a stiff drink (kidding, I just had Kool-Aid). When I got home I told my hubby all that had occurred and he called and “expressed his concern” over what happened. He got an apology from her, but I am still waiting.

After work that night I was still feeling like poo and knew I needed to get back on a medication-something different than what I had been taking. But where was I supposed to go? If I couldn’t go to the “low income” treatment place, where do you go? I gave Joyce a call and gave her a run down on what had happened and asked if she could find a doctor willing to call something in for me. She said that she would do just that, but didn’t know if they would be willing to because I was not asking for a refill.

She called the next day and told me that the doctor in question was not available. So, I called my primary care physician and a former psychiatrist and asked them to do the prescribing. Eventually I got the medication albiet five times the dose I needed. Joyce called me again later in the day to tell me that another lady, Carla, would be calling me to inform me that CO-PAYS ARE BASED ON INCOME REGARDLESS OF HAVING INSURANCE.

Sooooooo, I called and made a new appointment. I had to make it with the don’t-bother-to-check-on-someone-having-a-nosebleed Kathleen. I stayed cordial throughout the conversation, even when her tone dropped noticeably after I said my name.

I came in an hour early for my appointment and went directly UPSTAIRS and handed in my tax return. They figured out that I would owe 15 bucks, NOT 40. I also said that I did not want to pay downstairs. Carla, the young lady who figured out my correct co-pay agreed with me and said she didn’t want me having any dealings with Kathleen either.

I went back downstairs and signed in for my appointment. I saw her looking for the co-payment sheet. She stuck her head out the window and siad with a rude tone “do you want to make any payments today?”. To which I replied “I have already paid upstairs, feel free to call Carly if you have any questions”. Another rude response of “You mean Car-LA”. I just said “yes”, and when I saw her reach for the phone I left the waiting room and went outside for a smoke until it was time for my appointment.

The appointment itself went great, I really like this new guy. I have another appointment in about two weeks, and I am looking forward to talking to him again.  

I did write a “apology” letter basically saying “I’m sorry all this happened, but in the future I do wish to have any discussion with you regarding co-pay”. Still waiting to hear back.

Nothing

I stepped outside onto the four buy four square of concrete that is our back porch to ease my nicotine addiction. *click* What is that? *click* I peer into the bleak darkness. *click* Is someone trying to light their grill, at one in the morning? *click* Clipping their too long hedges? *click* My eyes adjust to the lack of light. *click* It is coming from the far back right corner of our yard. *click* I stare directly at the unknown in hopes that my directness will fend off the huge beast with a Bic trying to set my four foot weeds on fire. *click* Suddenly a crashing sound through the weeds stops my heart, I flip around pull open the screen door, jump inside, slam it behind me, send the door crashing into place, and throw the deadbolt cigarette still in hand. I stand at the back door listening intently for the low growl of a rabid stray dog angry that his midnight snack escaped, or the boom of the mad mans shotgun as he fired point blank through the colorful punch buggy curtain covering the single paned glass. My body convulsed with fear, my foot slipping out of my blue flip flop, I took a drag off the half finished cigarette. I tried to calm myself and finding none i retrieved my voice from the floor and called for my husband who was busy killing innocent pedestrians in Grand Theft Auto IV. “Bubbie?” I said my voice relying my shakiness “could you come here a sec?” He paused his rampaging, set the controller down, and came to my assistance. “There is something out there”, he went back, grabbed a flashlight, and bravely shined it’s beam through the kitchen window at the menacing nothing that scared the bajeebus out of me. That’s right, there was nothing there, no rabid dog, no mad man, no raving raccoon, not even a bunny.

Nothing.

And it was scarier than any horror movie I have ever seen.

I plan on smoking from the safety of the inside of my kitchen for the remainder of my smoking days.

Overheard:

While sitting in the ground floor waiting room looking out at the street as the cars pass by, counting the minutes until they call my name and I get to have needles shoved into various appendages, a young lady approaches the Information Desk.

Young Lady: (said with certainty) Uh, is this considered the seventh floor?

Lady at Information Desk: (trying to figure out if this is a joke) Uh, er, uh no. The elevators are down the hall.

wow, impressive.

Having said nothing, I have nothing more to say.