When I was a kid, I thought that nobody actually wanted to be a girl. That it’s just one of those unfortunate fates you get handed, like being born with no eyes or no legs or something. That it’s something miserable, that’s supposed to be miserable, and everyone else is just better at sucking up and enduring it than I am. That it’s supposed to hurt and you’re supposed to act like it doesn’t, and that’s just what everyone does.

Being born in mid-90s, I was vaguely aware that trans women exist, but I was like 13 when I discovered that it goes the other way around too. Like you can transition female-to-male. And my first thought was “how hasn’t everyone done this?” I thought it had to be some very well-guarded secret, because otherwise how else would they stop every woman from flocking to these things. My first initial thought was that if women knew there was an option to just stop being women, the world would run out of women.

I don’t understand why anyone would want to be a woman, but it gradually came to my understanding that some women do. They actually enjoy that. So, as far as I’m concerned, the definition of “woman” is anyone who wants to be one. I don’t understand why anyone does, but it’s not off my plate if someone does.

The definition of a woman is a person who wants to be a woman. That is none of my business for as long as they let me stray out of it.

well if the pattern holds just wait me out another 10 years and it’ll come back around

I’m amused by the idea of getting kidnapped by some weird evil organization, but not for the government secrets that I know about weapons tests. Just by like, some guy that wants to study what I’m willing to eat.

“How about eggshells?” he’d ask after I had a few minutes to adjust to my surroundings.

“No!” I would say, and he’d mark that down.

“Cellophane?” he’d ask, and I’d be absolutely aghast.

“I’d never be able to swallow it.”

There’d be a long pause as he tried to think of something else.

“…Those little rubber hands in the prize jars at arcades?”

I’d be tempted to lie, but the words would catch in my throat. Just like cellophane. He’d look at me, knowing the answer, but still waiting for me to acknowledge it. To see if I could admit it to myself.

“Yeah. I could probably eat a whole jar of those,” I’d admit sheepishly. And he’d look at me, not exactly approving, but understanding. Comprehending. The relief I’d feel at the confession would be downright Catholic.

There’d be a few moments as he jotted his thoughts down. Then the questions would begin again. And again.

(And again.)