because there is nothing else i can do.

so i finally did what every other millennial writer did 2 years ago and started a substack. i’m aiming to post once a month, maybe occasionally twice if you’re lucky but no more than that.

as always with my writing they’ll be lots of trigger warnings and i’ll try to mention them all up front. todays include: lots of surgery chat, lots of weight loss chat, a little suicidal idealisation & some slurs (but only the fun ones)

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january 15th

the scale at the hospital showed me 3kg heavier than the scale at home. or had i put on 3kg since i got on the bus? i was bloated… maybe i’m pregnant?

i smiled as the nurse wrote down my weight (wrong) and my height (technically correct, but i maintain that a neat 5 '5 is much chicer than a messy 5’6) but i don’t argue - the taller i am the better my BMI will be. better. as if BMI makes any sense anyway.

her dress is covered in constellations, i compliment her because i need her to like me, but inside i'm wondering if she has different themed dresses for when she’s working on the tranny ward? should i be grateful we got the constellation dress and not the tenderqueer cosplay of dinosaur dungarees?

she explains to me everything i’ve already read on reddit. it is a bit clearer with it being directed at me, but the end result is the same ‘yes i still want vaginoplasty and yes i know it might go wrong’

she explains to me how close the canal is to my rectum, and if that tears i might piss my shit out of my new pussy. that would result in a colostomy bag, 2 more surgeries and a smelly pussy.

she also tells me about the 10 weeks i’ll be signed off work - as if i have a real job? maybe i should get one just for this? ‘hi i’d like a job plz, ps i get a neopussy tomorrow can i have 10 weeks of sick pay plz?’

she talks about all the stretching ill have to do. she doesn’t use the word stretch. she uses a far more medical word that stretch, but we agree to use stretch between us as it’s more neutral than my alternate options of fuck or penetrate.

i will have to stretch myself 3 times a day for 10 weeks, then regularly for the rest of my life. and i intend to die old. or tomorrow. i haven’t decided which yet. At the end of the appointment i have to piss in a fake toilet that is essentially just a jug under a funnel under a toilet seat. it’s to test how well i can empty my bladder which will patently be important eventually.

i sit down to piss as if its a test. as if someone will knock the door down and give me a tranny gold star for not pissing standing up. i don’t look down, not at the toilet seat, not the funnel, not the jug, not even my junk which had just been manhandled by 6 blue gloved hands as they assessed if i had enough foreskin for a vaginal canal and despite not looking down all i can see are those blue gloves.

i forgot my laptop, i left the flat 2 hours early for an hour and 15 minute journey, yet still managed to forget: my water bottle, my painkillers, my laptop. i did however remember to pack: a tupperware full of plain chicken, my laptop charger, a trans erotica book, and 2 protein bars.

after the consultation ended I was intending on going straight into town to write. if i write about this it isn’t a waste of time. yes you read that correctly. the doll who has been advocating and fighting for her own medical care for nearly a decade is so brainwashed by capitalism that she can’t even go to a doctor's appointment without attempting to monetise it.

work has been my surgery goal weight for a while. aka thin - so i’m trying to turn everything into content. content? fuck that. i’m trying to turn everything into a book. or a play. or a tv series. or a suicide note.

but i can’t work because i left my laptop at home, so i spend an hour and 15 going back home followed by another hour going back into town to ‘write’.

and i do. i write something like this, maybe it is this essay - maybe it’s something else you’ll read another time, or maybe it’ll go with me to my grave (whether i get there tomorrow or in 60 years)

but it’s january. and january fucking sucks. not just this january - every single january is a battle between british weather and my brain for which one hates me the most. usually my brain wins. then february comes along & the fight starts over…

the world is burning. there may be occasional respite, and there will definitely be more bad news to come - and whilst i’m not a journalist or a politician or even a teacher, i am an observer. and i will write what i see, because there is nothing else i can do.