Decidedly Obscure Human Complaints.

I’m dating someone. Woot! It’s been, oh… approximately 3 years since I’ve done so? Which means this is kinda epic. Or, rather, super epic. Back in the day I had essentially resolved to stop dating for a number of reasons. First, over time intimacy had become a huge dysphoria trigger. It got to the point where I just absolutely couldn’t ignore the disconnect between my mind and body. Without dating I had a series of coping tactics I’d developed throughout my wily adolescence - such as never looking down when I was naked (or in the mirror) and ignoring the existence of my female-bodied areas as much as possible. But when I finally stumbled into the land of intimacy at 17 years of age… even though I didn’t quite know why, I preferred that my partner didn’t touch me. It made me sad. And this preference lasted until my third relationship. When I was touched, I tried to pretend that my body was what my brain map expected - for lack of a better term, male-typical. Alas, that only work

When I started this transition shindig I absolutely couldn’t wait for the day I’d develop stubble and, possibly, facial here (based on my unique genetics!). But when it finally started to happen, I was disturbed by how brittle and wiry it was in comparison to hair elsewhere. I expected it to be coarse - but it was so… dry and unmanageable . Especially on my chin. With my brother and father as facial hair role models, neither of which really do much in the self-maintenance department, I had resolved that my fate rested in either the land of coarse torture brittle. I had no idea that a solution to this predicament existed - but it does. And it goes by the name of beard oil and/or conditioner. And little beard combs! Once I made said discovery I’ve been letting these face whiskers grow! Every morning and night I rub some of this Bluebeards in: - and then use a li’l Kent beard comb. It’s kinda the most adorable thing ever: Afterwards, any little stray whiskers are cut with

Had the most difficult time getting my prescription refill (testosterone cypionate) this time around. Generally I just wander in to the pharmacy and request my refill, give them money, take bag of needles and prescription, and head off into the world. But when I attempted to refill this time around ON injection day I was told, “Oh, you’re out of refills. Oh, and your doctor won’t authorize a refill until you make an appointment with her.” Oh, alright. Fair enough. Except that I'm due for a shot - today. And came in today because I couldn't afford it prior, as I was just paid. When I tried to schedule an appointment with her I was told, “You owe us money. It’s in collections. Here’s their number.” What? From when? Where? Whyyyyy is this the first time I’ve heard of it and it’s in collections !? Turns out, even though my doctor’s office had my current address and name - they had never communicated that to billing. So here I was, bumbling along assuming that all of my info i

The other day being read as a cisgender dude got me into trouble. There I sat, all studious-like, in my Psychology class as my professor lectured about noticeably observable gender differences in toddlers. As she lectured, I reminisced about my own toddlerhood and how I can’t recall noticing any extreme physical differences until the land o’ adolescent puberty. In my case, by the time I entered junior high school, I was all kinds of tall and awkward while all of the cisgender boys were itty bitties scurrying around. There were a lot of girls who were taller than the boys, having hit puberty earlier. Knowing that this had 95.6% to do with pubertal differences, I wanted to ask about what, biologically, accounted for the much more subtle observable differences pre-puberty in toddlers. So I raised my hand and said: “I remember junior high, when there were all of these tall awkward girls who had hit puberty before boys…” , and, suddenly, a flurry of whispers and outcry and ooo’s