A squeeze??

There’s a person in my Chem class who is really striking to look at. And I’d like to look at them. A lot. 

We’ll call them R. R sat a few seats away from me the first few classes. Twice now, they’ve sat directly to my left, which makes me very aware of where my things are and where their things are. And I notice when they drop things. And ask me for help. And raise their hand. 

They seem like my people? They seem (in my limited understanding) like a kind person. They’re in my Chem class, and almost everyone in that class wants to be a doctor, like me. And, as I mentioned, they’re nice to look at. 

I don’t know why I’m sharing all this. I’ve had squeezes before, people I’d love to spend time with- but not as a romantic thing. I doubt this is a romantic thing either. I’m just not sure what I want, what this is- and I’ve never sat by or actually spoken to a squeeze before. So I’m truly not sure what’s gonna happen here, but. 

I hope R wants to know me too. 




I Still Don’t Want Kids: Part 2

TRIGGER WARNING: For graphic discussion of pregnancy, description of primary tokophobia, parenthood, sacrifice, and how those topics relate.

Apparently my womb is a point of contention. More precisely, how and when I’ll use it.

I’ve had this conversation many times. I’ll tell someone I don’t want children, and they argue with me. Why is it always something to be argued with? I had a literal nightmare last night about pushing someone- a baby- out of my body. About the visceral submission to another person. About how a baby comes to be inside a body. And no part of that scenario appeals to me.
From beginning to end, pregnancy is a violent, sacrificing process. It would require sacrificing myself, first my privacy and personal space to another adult, and then my entire body to a baby. For nearly a year, this baby, this other person, would do as it pleased with my body- steal nutrients, drive my emotions crazy, make me vomit, make me ache. My first sacrifice would be visible to everyone I interact with for five to six months while the baby was still inside me, telling of the events which lead to a distended abdomen and swollen breasts.
This trial wouldn’t end gently, either. Hypothetically, one act, one assault or moment of pleasure with another person could lead to this life-changing, life-creating process. For nine months approximately I would wholly contain another human being- and then that person, who I’m encouraged to love, encouraged to want- that human being would force my body open, possibly killing me, or wreak so much havoc that another person must cut into me and take the infant out manually. It’s violent. It’s invasive. It’s uncomfortable. It’s sexualized, fetishized, expected. Expected.
I’m expected, at some point in my life, to willingly enter this process of pain and physically be controlled by two different people, at the end of which, I will be expected to stay with both and care for the one which recently wrecked my body. After enduring total-body invasion, my hormonal levels and health would never be the same, and I would be expected by many people to keep the child who caused it in my life, to raise that child and provide care as soon as I’m done pushing blood out of my body. After pregnancy, I would be expected, forced to become a parent as well.
And parenting, as many people seem to think, doesn’t end after eighteen years. It’s the rest of my life twined with a person who caused me unimaginable pain, whose birth would undoubtedly give me nightmares and phantom aches long after I had healed. I would need to feed, clothe, educate, and communicate with that person. I would need to call them weekly, pay for what I can, keep seeing them into my old age, should I live that long.
As I write this, I’m nearly crying. My heart hurts at the thought of so much sacrifice, so much pain. And I can’t stop thinking about it. It’s too much to ask of a person, too much to expect, but we ask it of our mothers and sisters and daughters and wives. I begged my mother for a little brother, and I do now have one. I can’t tell her or my father, can’t express how terrifying pregnancy and parenthood are to me.
I wish so badly that I could rip these parts out of myself, all the parts which support reproduction. I wish I had been born infertile. I wish this wasn’t a choice I had to make, and I wish it hadn’t been decided by everyone around me that I wanted this before I even knew what a uterus was. Yes, I played with babydolls, yes I played at motherhood. But I never understood just how much of a sacrifice parenthood is. And I can’t see myself ever wanting it.

Names and Pronouns

Pronouns. Depending who I come out to, after the whole “so you’re gender fluid-” “no” bit, one of the first questions I get is “what pronouns do you use?” And for a very long time- almost five years since I started thinking seriously about gender, in fact- I’ve asked people to just call me “she” until I tell them otherwise. 

Now, as with coming to terms with my asexuality, I’ve come to terms with terms. I get mistaken for a guy more often than, say, my mother does, even when I’m not binding. When I introduce myself on the Internet, I tend to just not mention gender unless someone specifically asks, so they can pick their own terms for me. I plan to keep doing this. 

However, I also really like “he” pronouns. I like the way I feel when people call me sir. I like when people don’t realize their “mistake” and don’t apologize. So while I will accept most pronouns, including “she” and “they,” I prefer “he” pronouns. 

And then there’s names. I’ve been signing my posts Terrance for over a year, even while telling myself that I can’t name myself that, that I need a better name. I’m still not sure about it. But I know that I like Terrance, the way it tastes, the colors of it, the shape of it. For now, it fits. 

If I’m called Terrance, I can also be called both Teri and Terry. Masculine and feminine. Plausible deniability for my parents, for my mother’s family. I can, maybe, keep my family, if I don’t do hormones, if I stay in the closet and don’t get surgery. I can have this. 

I’m scared of losing my family. Of my mother dismissing me, of my dad being confused and uncomfortable. And I don’t want to hear about how other people’s comfort doesn’t matter in the face of mine- that’s not who I am. I care about other people’s conort around me. I want them to be comfortable. 

Only time will tell, I suppose. But for now I remain, 

Very truly yours,


Christmas break

I hate this bed
My bed, repurposed.

Dense flat pillows,

plastic mattress cover creaking.

A person I don’t know well

Turns above me and sighs
My back can only be turned to the door

My bed too far from the wall

A mattress with sheets,

One woven blanket

Naked of the nest of

Stuffed things



Which I’ve dreamed about for months

I don’t know where they are.

I’m visible from the doorway

Unable to hide

Unable to burrow

Or even sit up straight
And I can’t stop thinking

How I hate this bed,

Hate where it lives

Hate how much

I hate it


I’m not feeling much. I have finals in a day. I should feel… Something. Scared. Stressed. Motivated. Something. 

Instead I’m feeling blank, a bit nauseous, a bit tired. I’ve gotten enough sleep. I’ve eaten too much. I’m aimless and I really need to study for my finals but more than that I need to feel something. And I’m not. 

I hate being trans

I hate being trans. I hate feeling like I don’t fit, I hate how my gender confusion twists in with my bodily dysphoria till I can’t tell one from another. I hate living with cis girls who think of me completely as a girl, I hate being afraid to come out, I hate it. 

And I can’t come out. I’m going to school, I don’t trust anyone enough to keep my secret and talk about it in real life, I’m far from the people who would listen or care. I’m sick of only being around cis people, because talking about how my body feels only makes them uncomfortable and I spend too much time trying to make people comfortable around me. 

I can’t even say whether coming out would help. I know I want top surgery, but I don’t want the conversations, the explaining, the saving and waiting. I don’t want to have to deal with this, with having a body and a gender and a presentation and I want to be a doctor I can’t transition when I have my MD but I won’t be able to afford it before them. 

And oh, I want to be a doctor. That’s the only thing I’ve never doubted, though I tried so hard to convince myself I didn’t want it. It’s going to be hard, so hard, to go to science classe, to learn chemistry and biology and then go to medical school. But it would be even harder to do all of that and be called “Dr.” and then be called by a woman’s name, be called a woman. 

I can’t be a woman. I’m not. I’ve known about trans people since I was very young, but I’ve no idea how I’m going to address this and keep my family. I can drop my friends, the irl ones who make fun of me for every piece of myself I give them, who tease me about how one day I’ll have a crush, how I’m a nerd. 

I’m so sick of being stuck here. I want to leave this school and take science classes till I can’t see straight and try to forget how wrong my body feels. I don’t even wish I’d been born male- I just wish I didn’t have a perceived gender to deal with. 

I’m procrastinating writing a paper right now, I should get back to that. 

Yours as always,


When are you an adult?

The thing is, I can’t tell. Are you an adult when you hit puberty? When you get your period? What about when you have your first breakup? Sex? How about when you turn eighteen?

What about when you do your own laundry? Yeah, I know, a lot of us fold our own laundry, or put it away, or something. But a lot of us rely on our parents to help us out. And why not? We grow up with people, and those people also do laundry. And since they’re older, they teach us how to do it, or do it for us. But some of us grow up early, by necessity or just because, and are responsible for our own laundry. It seems to mean something, doesn’t it? To be responsible for the neverending chore that is clean clothes?

What I’m trying to say is, I’m in a laundry room right now. I’m paying by the load, and I’m responsible for buying detergent, folding, everything. And I’m doing okay. I feel like an adult every time I come down here, and sit in the rumble of the machines and think. I don’t love it, but I don’t hate it. 

Does that make me an adult? Or am I still a child? When do I know? Does adulthood come with a bang, or with a whimper?

Tell me about your own thoughts on laundry, rites of passage, and adulthood in the comments. And until next time, I remain, forever yours, 


Scratching the Itch

Sometimes the words dry up. Like a puddle after a rainstorm, like affection, like the green of the leaves and the summer wanes and closes, taking with it the memories of crispness and clean. Snow lies heavy on wilted leaves, colors long forgotten in their damp prison. Sometimes, the words tickle to life, pressing beneath my tongue, demanding to be written. But there is nowhere to go. Where the words want to come, want to be spoken and used and spun like fine sugar, ideas stop. What character? What story? Should I borrow someone else’s?

And then I hesitate, wanting to return to my trusty home in fanfiction, but that home has grown too small. There’s only so many times you can kill the same character, only so many times you can write your own insecurities and joys onto someone else’s template. And now they feel stretched too thin, and it’s been too long since I touched them, stretched their limits, manhandled their edges until they fit my words.
“Write about the politics of language,” my teacher says. Write about the ramifications of these misspellings, these grammatical droughts, these dialect-laden fruits of poems? But why? The language is a tool, and these poems are like using catsup for paint to make people focus on the clumpy brown muck that looks a lot like the sandwich they had for lunch. It’s messy, it’s unappealing, and it’s slightly nauseating. I take pride in the letters placed side by side, in order, the way they should be. I take joy in that organization. Why ruin it?
Stop throwing your letters on the floor like old socks. Stop ripping them apart, till nothing remains but the echo of the Roman alphabet. Pick up your scraps, glue them together, make some words that mean something. The scars, the seams of your emotions are starting to show on the fabric of your art, and it’s disctracting. It demands like Frankenstein’s monster to be seen, refuses to blend. Can’t you see your electric shocks aren’t bringing any life at all?
And here the words are. They complain, but it feels so good to put them out. It’s like vomitting water, emptying something that does no good. But now it’s gone, maybe just a little, and the itch is sated a little bit. But the urge to type, to tap and fix and put words on a page continues, tugging at me, twisting my mind, nagging me because I should write more, because I have a paper due Friday, because I want so much to have the words I see. I want to be able to hold my words out to someone else and say look, can’t you see, this is my soul? I want my words to sparkle and shine, to be blue as sparks and cold as ice. I want to capture a language fragile as gossamer, as a spider’s web, but all I have are these words that feel more like canvas and sandpaper than the fabric and light I want to produce.
Can’t you hear my cry? People talk about a muse, they talk about writer’s block, but that’s not what this is. Maybe I’m not a writer. Maybe I’m not meant to write, to publish, to share my thoughts. What good am I without my thoughts! I want to share, to bleed my knowledge, my opinions, my memories. I want them to flow out, till no one can mistake me for anything or anyone other than who I am, till everyone understands. Why is their understanding so important? Why is their understanding something I yearn for? Why can’t I ever be quiet, just listen, just absorb. I can be quiet, or I can be loud, but I can’t pay attention. What’s inside is too much for me to stopper it, for me to want to. And it’s not even special. So why is it here?

Stop telling me I just need to meet someone

One of the things that kills me about people arguing about my asexuality is that. I spent so long trying not to be. I spent so long looking for a “cute boy,” so long trying to force myself to develop a crush. Ten years or so, and still nothing. I spent so long thinking I was broken. I spent so long looking forward to a surely-dysfunctional marriage because I thought I had to have one. I spent so long hurting, so long afraid.

Then one day, I accepted I was asexual, but went about trying to convince myself that I was at least romantic in some way. I must be, right? But I wasn’t. I wasn’t, and I felt so broken inside, because one of the basic facts of humanity was something I’m doomed to never see. It hurt so much to see that, to think that. 

Even now, I’m trying to figure out how my life is going to go. I don’t want to be alone, I don’t want a roommate, I want intimate physical touch and comfort, but not sex. I want what everyone wants, but every time I struggle with my friends, I remember that I don’t want to be alone, and I wonder how much of my foot I’ll have to cut off to stuff it in the glass slipper. Because uncut, I’ll never fit. 

My heart aches. My body yearns to be loved, to be hugged and touched. I miss my dad’s hugs. I miss being touched, being loved. I miss it. 

Moving Forward

It’s been a long time since I’ve updated. Perhaps the perfect time, then, for a new blog post.

I graduated high school! Excitement! And now I’m a college freshmen, somewhere in the USA (I’ve never left), and hoping to one day achieve a degree. I’ll talk about that later. Right now, I kind of want to rant about a few frustrations of mine, and talk about a few joys that came with this transition.
First of all, why are so many teachers of core classes so blatantly dismissive? So many of my teachers act as if no one wants to be present, and they have to convince us of how important their class is. I’ve spent my whole life in classes I had no choice not to be in, but this is the first time teachers have tried so hard to convince their students that they need this class. What the fuck is that about? Is it because we can withdraw from this school, these classes, at will?
I’ve found a group of friends, which pleases me to no end. I’ve got two roommates and three other girls who live on campus as well, and the six of us tend to get along pretty well. We’re still dealing with growing pains, feeling out sore spots, adjusting- but it’s coming along. The people in my classes, for the most part, are really sweet, and we chat between classes and commiserate about professors who are just not getting their points across. Having a net of acquaintences is great. I recommend it.
On a not so fun note, one of my roommates refuses to believe that I like neither boys nor girls. She continues to insist that I’ll meet someone someday, and it makes my skin itch. I don’t want a partner. I don’t want children. And people seem to think that’s a crime, an anomoly, and in her case, something to be rectified. She teases often that I clearly like a guy we met, and it’s getting harder to keep my frustration tucked away.
At some point, I’ll go into some detail about various things, about how my life is going, etc. But for now, I’m mainly writing this post to avoid studying, so I think I’ll get back to that now.
Thanks for reading,