Trans Life Hack

You post it only when a bigot dies.

I listen to the 80's version of Crab Rave on the regular.

We are not the same.

Even though religious women who cover up will claim that they believe in feminism and free choice, they sure do love to call their own particular style of clothing "modest".

Think about that for two (2) seconds.

I don't think it's random, accidental, or coincidental. Words mean things. If you want to reclaim that style of dress as by and for women, rather than dictated by men and imposed on women, then you really do have to step away from the inherently patriarchal branding embedded in words like "modest".

And I'm speaking as a former devoted hijab-wearer. "High-coverage" is right there for the taking. You could also specify what you mean by "modest": high-necked, long-sleeved, loose-fitting, ankle-length, dark-colored, whatever. It's not like women even within the same religion agree on what's suitably "modest". Saying what you mean is a good thing.

I can't believe I've never shared this story with the Internet before. It's how something some random person I don't know and have never met will live in me forever.

It was sometime in the late 90's or early aughts. I was in my early adolescence, so between 11 and 14. I used to regularly read the PennySaver cover to cover. Why? For me, it was one of the few scattered little windows into what everyday life was like for non-famous people outside of my niche world. I also was a fast and voracious reader, but never had enough to read, especially not periodicals.

If you don't know what the Pennysaver is, it was analog Craigslist: That cheaply-printed newsprint booklet that no one subscribed to arrived in everyone's mailbox once a week. Certain ad types cost money to run, plus it ran ads. It was a more family-friendly weekly than, say, your LA Weeklies or, further up the West Coast, The Strangers. Also minus the journalism, I suppose, but there were gay people in it!

Anyway, one week, I'd read something in the PennySaver that started the slow process of catalyzing a change in my life for the better. It wasn't a wanted ad for something I had that turned out to be worth a lot of money. It wasn't a job listing that started my career. It wasn't even for a garage sale that had an item that ended up being important to me.

It was a w4m personal ad. As continues to be the case, those were much rarer than m4[literally anything]. The first sentence was "Thin may be in, but fat's where it's at!"

It was the first time I'd ever seen someone call themself fat in a way that wasn't at all negative, apologetic, or angry. This lady was saying hey, I'm fat! And I think it's a selling point even if the overall culture says it isn't!

I don't recall anything else about the ad other than that it was a woman seeking a man, and that the rest of it was unremarkable. It took a lot of other things to get me to a point of real, lasting comfort with my fatness, of course. But that little quip is stuck in my head for the rest of my life.

Thank you, random lady. I hope you're still alive, kicking, and happy. I hope you found as much love and/or miles of d1ck as you wanted, whether through the ad or by other means.

Could there be anything worse than realizing that you're the ex Chappell Roan is talking about in "Good Luck, Babe!"?

Yes. Yes, there is.

It would be worse to mistake yourself for the ex Chappell Roan is talking about in Good Luck, Babe!

"Your cat doesn't *actually* love you, it's just because you feed them. Oh and they only snuggle with you because they want your warmth!"

Oh, bud, do I have news for you about the origins of affection in all those other mammalian species, too.

Untitled [written ~20 years ago, revised a few times]

So cold, it's so cold just because you were so bold as to take and squeeze the universe (whose vast distances our minds traverse in our short bursts of ample time) and with such brashness of rhyme to roll it between your cross-scarred fingers (with a gaze that I always hope will linger... ah, the clarity of that blue-dappled eye!) and narrow the uncertainty that I deny.

The terse moments are not so fleet so as to drive away what they imply Say the caustic words and repeat: Just a blip on the radar to me My own words, as I recall? But that was not it, not truly it, at all.

Here I give my translation: I've lost more than my faith in revelation for you've turned all that's in my head  but I find it much too hard to concede what I think, what I feel — what I need? I cannot pour frankness into your ear when all but clarity can be found here. It was once a truth and then once more a lie All that I no longer can bear to deny

The wellings-up grow ever more strong It's stupid and it's pointless and it's wrong But that sleight of word that does certainty decry... what that evokes — I can never deny

Here I give my revelation: While you could be but my mind's creation you feel like a cruel trick of fate. Our shared time stretches under its own weight. Silent only as we contemplate parting for the night Shirking others for each other — how delightfully trite And then you compelled me to ungrip my hand and unclasp my fingers to meet your demand palm to palm pressed, holy pilgrims — and then you told of admiration grown from how I'd grown more bold.

I might be God, and so might you be but divine signs and patterns are all I see pointing to you in a clear line but just as clearly, I know you are not mine. And so I leave it, and within an hour or two fuel my gasps for another with my thoughts of you. When I speak of it with you, my mouth twisted and wry You take the bait and begin to decry

You say that I want to be swept off my feet that I want a true mind to with mine meet I drag out my "no", let it hang in front of you as though through stretching alone I could make it true It fills my mouth to muffle what I want to cry: You — you are the love I must deny.

[for S., with equal sheepish apologies to T.S. Eliot and Surah Ar-Rahman]

I am currently reviewing and auditing digital records related to Internet governance. Many are legal documents that underwent endless cycles of revisions and approvals. The oldest among them are over 25 years old.

Much of what used to baffle me about Microsoft Word suddenly makes so. much. sense.

The two tupperware genders are spaghetti sauce/tamatar ki salan (reddish) and tumeric/haldi (yellowish).

Maybe I'm just too Elevatorgate/Gamergate poisoned but

I sway, in place,