I actually like to cook, but I hate that feeling I get when I’m in the kitchen, you know? When other people look at me and it’s like all they see is a woman where she should be. Like of course she can cook, it’s not like she had to practice for ages, it’s a natural inborn trait that all women have, women are just biologically compelled to cook and bake and serve dinner and do dishes and do all the laundry and pick up after all the nasty slob men.

I feel like I’m losing myself when other people look at me, because I can see the false idols they construct in their fucking heads; thank god she’s finally womanly, thank god she’s got a boyfriend and she’s not a dyke, thank god, maybe she’ll finally give me grandchildren, maybe she’ll finally grow up and act normal.

The amount of resentment that festers in me like an uncontrolled hurricane of rot is enough to maim, kill, bite, blind, like a deep and ragged wound perpetually oozing yellowish pus. I sometimes feel like I’m holding back a feral animal. It’s not my fucking fault nobody wants to see me as a man, they’re all just looking away, only seeing what they want to see. Because if I’m a man, then I’m not only a man, I’m a flamboyant little queen, which is worse than being a woman. The only thing worse than being a woman is being a not-woman: something approximate to womanhood but unsexy, something you can’t stick your dick into without being gay.

Teehee, haha, isn’t it so fucking funny the dyke that bakes cookies is reading a Playboy magazine. Why don’t you all go fuck yourselves. I hope that Hell is real just so that every transphobic cis person can experience an eternity of anguish being forced to relive their childhoods over and over, treated as the opposite sex by everyone who claims to love them, told they’re crazy if they try to object. There’s a good crossdressing joke for you!