One Week Anniversary

Today, I celebrate my one week anniversary of being a woman, hormonally speaking. I'm not announcing a sex change...yet. No, but in all seriousness, this past week has proved to be most tumultous, both physically and emotionally. Now, where crying is concerned, I can often get myself worked up and cry quite a bit, however this crying is usually more of an egotistically useful tactic ( used in order to stop my father from haranguing me about gym failures or diffusing my mother's breakdowns) than an authentic reaction to something sad. However, pumped with a generous amount of cyproterone and ethinyl ( which sounds suspiciously like ethanol) estradiol, it appears something wicked has possessed me, something that my father assured, even PROMISED me I would never ever have...Empathy.

I can say with (almost complete) candour, that this past week, I've been more prone to finding sad things sad, and bad things bad. Hormones have turned me into Doctor Seuss, apparently.

Fail Once, Shame On You, Fail Twice ...Then You're A Dumbass

I failed gym for the second time this semester. This is written with absolutely no pride. I am ashamed. After denial, I passed to anger, and after anger I passed to sadness, and after the sadness I passed to acceptance, and after the acceptance, I'm back at denial. Who fails gym twice?

As my father put it, " I will continue to support you, but will no longer have any emotional investment in you" Ouch.

This is where I have come up with a scholarship in my name, one which offers failures and flunk-outs the chance to get into good universities and FREE. The slogan, " FAIL YOUR WAY INTO COLLEGE!"

If only.

In other news, it appears that my brother is behind my lack of estrogen. He's stealing it all! He's growing little breasts!

Virility

Venetia, reclining on a chair, circa 2022

Patosa

Walking with my father the other day, a rather touchy subject came up, or rather I brought it up. In bringing up such a subject, I was hoping to evoke some kind of sympathy in my father ( which now reflecting was a high expectation to begin with, only proving just how desperate I was at the time of said event). Recently, I've been compared to a clown. This pains me deeply. I hate clowns. Beside the revoltingly seedy and offensive aesthetic ( which in itself would justify any contempt towards clowns), I find that clowns are fundamental hypocrites. Perhaps my clothing can border on TOO much at times, or perhaps I trip over my shoes once in a while, but really, am I that clownish? After hearing me out, my father paused thoughtfully, mulling the information over. I prepared myself to be consoled when he then said, " well yes, as the Spanish would say, you're quite the patosa, aren't you?"