What if there are immutable facts about oneself? I am putting forth such effort to control the things about my life and myself that hurt. Yet the harder I try, the more difficult it becomes.

I had, perhaps foolishly, assumed that the grotesque trajectory of growth the Body was subject to prior to my intervention was the problem. As such, I have busied myself with so much change. Changing the Body. Changing my relationships. Changing my hair and my clothes and, to a smaller degree of effectivness, my voice. I have come to learn, however, that there are things in me that are rotten. Decayed, spongy, infected things that ache and ache and no matter how I approach the extraction of them they stay rooted firmly in place.

I take great pains to live around these infections. To mold and build a self with the negative space for their shape. This, however, has so far proven less than effective. I will invariably put pressure on one of these fetid spots. When I do, it is agony.

There is so much more work to be done than I had initially estimated. I am tired.

Fie! In an attempt to install a lighter and more technically complex Operating System, I have mangled the machine's Bootloader beyond recognition.

My minor successes caused me to greatly overestimate my command of this discipline. I craved greater access to the Computers structure, greater access to its mind. Instead, I was forced to spend the afternoon returning to the Operating System I was utilizng before. I am chastened, but not entirely discouraged.

This was my second failure in twenty-four hours. Last evening I attempted to engage in intercourse with an individual who was not my Sunlight. I can imagine the face you are making now. Stay your judgement, dear reader, for my Sunlight was fully aware of my intentions. It was not a failure of morality, but of the Body's nervous system.

You see, I have come to find sex one of the few ways I can enjoy utilizing the body. It tends to blur the line drawn between me and it, if only for a moment. What I did not account for was that sex with someone who was not my Sunlight would be, in a word, frightening. Somewhere during the act I became aware of the uncleanliness of it all. The exhanging of fluids, the sweat collecting on my body that was not my own. I hated it. I requested that we stop immidiatley. I cried. They were understanding, but could offer me little comfort. I did not feel completley better until I saw my Sunlight the following day and could recount to her in lurid detail the specifics of my meltdown.

I must be more thoughtful in my approach to the Body and the inputs I choose to give it. The progress here is also slow. But it is, again, not entirely discouraging.

An auspicious day! I now possess the tools and knowledge neccessary to push updates to this blog

directly from my Terminal. Prior to this I was simply writing them directly into the HTML. This

was, frankly, tedious. Now, with the help of a script (that I must point out I did not write) and

invaluable assistance from my Sunlight, I can write my posts and publish them instantly. I am pleased.

While this is a very small thing, it is a thing nonetheless. A tangible mark of progress. Perhaps my mastery

of the computer is not such a distant prospect.

The dinner did not happen, dear reader. There was a scheduling conflict.

Something else has happend to me. Yesterday afternoon as I was making to leave my apartment, a cockroach scuttled out from under my couch. it startled and revolted me, so I crushed it swiftly underfoot. It made a loud, almost artificial "pop." Like I had stepped on a sheet of bubble-wrap. Later, when I inspected the bottom of my boot, I found an imprint of it on the sole.

Only days ago I was penning pretty lines about the saving of spiders and their homes. It's simple for me to be thoughtful and kind regarding the beautiful creatures. The spiders, the leaf-bugs, the hornets. That kindness is easily withheld for the beings I have categorized as "gross."

I get on my laptop and play at being something more than I am. The truth of it is that I'm just as quick to violence as the people of this realm. The truth is I am the kind of woman who would kill something because it scared her.

I am hosting a dinner in my home tomorrow. This means that today I have much to do.

My apartment, while generally cleaner than normal, is in no state to receive friends. Its baseboards are dusty and there are spiderwebs in several corners. I like the spiderwebs, and the spiders they contain. However, I doubt my guests will feel the same sort of kinship with them that I do. Even so I may not have the heart to dismantle their homes. Perhaps they have established a life in a place they do not belong, but what right do I as someone who has done much the same have to remove them?

Regardless, the home must be cleaned and a shopping trip must occur. At current I lack anything in my refrigerator that would be acceptable to label “dinner.” I am no chef. I rely on the microwave and nearby restaurants to feed the Body. But I have my tricks. I have learned that Italian food is a substitute for cooking ability. Noodles with sufficient sauce and garlic prove an effective mortar for the gaps in one’s culinary talent.

I admit I am rather nervous about tomorrow’s proceedings. You see, dear reader, it will be the first meeting of my Sunlight and two of my closest friends. Friends who have until now been very resistant to this meeting. Their opinion on her matters little to me, but I do not wish for the evening to be tense or unpleasant for anyone involved. I do hope they like her.

If you are reading this well after the posting date then this has already occurred, and you know how it turned out. I have no such luxury. I am bound to my frustratingly limited and linear perception of time. All I can do is hope for the best.

I have purchased a new laptop and installed on it a most complicated operating system. I want to dedicate myself fully to understanding its language, understanding how its mind interfaces with its body, and exert my will upon it. I am out of my depth.

Of late I have been throwing myself into the deep end of various disciplines. I have coasted along all 33 of the Body’s years and somehow picked up little in the way of skills. This vexes me. I ache to be proficient at something. I am envious of people who have already done this at a much younger age. People who have been drawing since childhood, or took violin lessons, or finished high school. People who were encouraged to pursue and develop their interests. Like so much else in my life since I began augmenting the Body, I am woefully behind the curve. I cannot take a beautiful photograph that perfectly imparts to the viewer the emotions I felt when capturing it. I cannot write a piece of music that brings its listener to tears. I cannot paint or program or sing.

So much time lost. 3 decades trapped in here, clawing at the walls of my own mind. Inspiration and drive and want all stuffed into a bag, hidden under the floorboards like a corpse. I did not believe it possible for me to do things, to make things that I was proud of. I could not imagine myself as I was creating anything that was beautiful or true, because I myself was neither. And now I’m afraid it is far too late.

I feel a keen desperation to make art that means something. I am terrified that I never will. In a very American sense I also hope that somehow my art can be used to support myself such that I never have to wear a headset and take phone calls from strangers ever again. Every day that passes with me leashed to a desk instead of creating is a splinter in my mind. Day in, day out.

Splinter. Splinter. Splinter. Splinter.

I have on several occasions communed with the Chained Moon to seek guidance and comfort. She can be well meaning, but she entirely lacks any personal context for the things I am facing. “Relax,” she says, “relax and meditate. The meditation will quiet your mind.” Perhaps it would, at that. But the meditation can’t pay my fucking rent.

I feel this to some degree or another with the vast majority of people I know. And sure, most of the people I know have a lot more to worry about than the Chained Moon does. They, like me, have to pay their rent, feed themselves, and try to keep it together while the world outside falls apart before their eyes. I get that. But even still they have no idea what it’s like to be someone like me. They can’t.

I walk out of my house and everybody can tell what I am. No matter how hard I try to make myself small and mind my own business. It can be felt, I think. There is a sensation to someone knowing Something about you. Knowing you are Something Else. I can’t just blend in.

I am constantly faced with discussions of my rights, my very existence, tossed about by hateful television personalities and “allies” alike as if I am some theoretical thing. There was a teenage girl in my hometown this year who was suing the schoolboard over their implementation of policy that forced trans students to use separate restrooms specifically for them. A vile attempt at othering these children. The suit was withdrawn because she killed herself. The policy works as intended.

Kyle Pfannenstiel of the Idaho Press wrote an article about it. It was titled “High school group challenging Idaho’s trans bathroom ban drops lawsuit after student’s death.” I find the wording of this far too passive. It should read “child killed by schoolboard.”

She is named in the article only by a pseudonym.

I’m stoned and it’s 2:17 AM and I am rapidly losing the ability to focus on this. My new keyboard is satisfying and nice to type on, but it is much too tall. My left hand is sitting uncomfortably on the edge of my desk. I had initially planned to clinically describe how my hand was uncomfortable because of its position relative to the height of the keyboard. But then once I started typing about it I realized I could simply move my hand. So I did. However as I type this it is becoming clear that my wrist is still uncomfortable. My hand resting at an awkward angle was indeed unpleasant but the height of the board is the real problem. I am going to stop typing now because my wrists hurt but know that I have more I want to say

Last night I logged in to the chatroom I host with my longtime friends.

I’ve been absent from it of late. Things have been difficult for me these last several months. I have had to navigate many external stressors, in addition to a low estrogen count causing me to become somewhat physically diminished. With the implementation of injections the body has more to work with, and is better able to propel itself though day to day life. I suddenly find myself in possession of a well of energy to draw from. Simple tasks like washing the dishes, cleaning the body, and especially socializing have become once again doable, if not always easy.

It was nice to be back. It was as if no time had passed, all of us effortlessly slipping back into our roles as compatriots. I haven’t laughed that hard in some time.

It is reassuring to me that they are still there, and that they will remain there even when I must take time away to rest, to care for the body and myself. They were not angry with me for my absence. They extended to me a grace I did not expect.

I will make a spirited attempt to interact with them more.

I have been in agony, dear reader!

Through my own negligence, I have allowed one of the body’s teeth to decay severely. I was alerted to this issue when I awoke in the dark of night to a pain so bright and sharp I could scarcely believe it was real.

Real it was. I spent the rest of the night shambling around my apartment, moaning, sobbing, desperate for relief that would not come. Occasionally I woke up my Sunlight so that I could hold her hand and seek comfort, but she, like me, was powerless to arrest the ever-present pain.

When day finally broke, I made a call to a dentist. They have cured me of this ailment, though at great cost to myself financially.

The procedure itself, while initially frightening, was actually rather enjoyable. This is because the dentist pumped the body’s lungs with a gas that suffused my mind and brought pleasant thoughts. The recovery period, while brief, proved also to be rather painful. I am only just feeling better.

I must take greater care of the body going forward. Neglect of it can result in considerable pain for myself. I now see its teeth as ticking time bombs.

I have begun the sizeable undertaking of creating my own video game. Progress is...slow.

You see, I have these grand ideas. They swirl and roil in my mind, pressurized, waiting to be brought into the physical world. The problem is I lack any and all technical skill related to such an endevor. I can learn. I must.

There are 3 main disiplines I aim to master. The first is coding. I know not the first thing about it but it is perhaps the most important. The second is modeling. I must develop the ability to give form to the images conjured in my mind. The third is understanding of the engine itself. How it fits together, how the things I make can be brought forth and utilized within it.

As my form continues to age I grow increasingly afraid that I will never create something I can be proud of. I must learn these disciplines, these languages. I must make something.

I am nauseated and oddly cold. A reaction to the injection? Illness? Simple stress?

The body utilizes unpleasant sensations to alert me of potential problems within itself. A useful feature, certainly. What vexes me is that it seldom offers an indication of what the problem may be. It makes me feel as if I am an exhausted parent standing over a wailing infant's crib. Does it need food? Sleep? A change of clothes? An extended vacation in which it lies in a field of yellow flowers?

How can it be that I feel so disconnected from something that is supposed to be such a major part of my personage? I want to love it. Care for it. I want to see it as myself. Sometimes I do! Other times, however, it feels like this separate, alien thing, holding me hostage to its needs. A living cage of frighteningly complicated wires and joints and sacs, all constantly threatening me with their fragility.

Sometimes I wish it could just take care of itself.

I have risen well before my usual hour, and the day feels full of possibility. Truly, I hate sleeping in. I am, ironically, a morning thing even if my corporeal form doesn't always agree.

Yesterday I began weekly injections of estrogen in an effort to shape the form provided for me in a manner I find more comfortable. I am grateful to The Chained Moon for this gift of physicality. However, she can be prone to small mistakes and there are aspects of this body that do not suit me. I will be charting my progress here.

I must admit I found the needle somewhat frightening. Up until this point I have been supplementing this body's lack of estrogen with pills. Less invasive, to be sure, but also cumbersome and only mildly effective.

I'm sure as the results become more evident and I gain more practice I will be more confident in administering the injections. For now, however, I find myself dreading the next jab.