Don’t you just love being misgendered?

Because I fucking don’t.

Don’t get me wrong, the people I was with were wonderful. I love hanging out with them. Even had a wonderful surprise when my Norwegian friend came over.

But for every nice person in that group, there are ten cuntbags I want to see dead with their hearts hanging out from their eye sockets.

This is the very reason I don’t go out on socials anymore. With any society. Last year, I went to damn near every single social held by the local games society. I mean I won a goddamn trophy because of it. This year, I barely went out.

I usually make the excuse of a lack of ID, but to be honest, most of the bouncers and bartenders around town know me enough to serve me anyway, to a point where I only need to say “the usual” in one of them.

It’s the cuntbags that I have to share the space with. I don’t appreciate being gawked at from a goddamn distance, checking what fucking gender I am. I don’t appreciate you trying to get me to speak to hear what octave my voice is at, and I certainly don’t fucking appreciate it when you call me a fucking man.

And while I get that these are good intentions, I don’t want to be reminded of what I am. I don’t want to be reminded that I “was someone else” in the past. I don’t want to be told off for not being fucking proud of who I am. Do you know what this condition is? It’s a fucking birth defect. It’s an illness. It’s a disease. It’s a disability and for all my talk of missing the old days, I will willingly kill someone and eat their heart served raw with a pint of urine to wash it down with just so I can get rid of this goddamn condition forĀ one day.

Fuck everything.

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