Not your standard issue late twenty-something's blog.

Tuesday, August 24, 2004

That pizza was a mistake.

I went to get a slice with my friend Gabe. Tasted like ass. Watched James Dobson on C-Span over the weekend while I folded my laundry. Apparently, when a boy hits 14 or so, a hormone washes over his brain and changes its color. It actually becomes greyer in appearance. Were a woman to refer to a man as "brain-damaged," she'd be right. Regardless, once this change occurs, this young man will never feel the same things a woman does.

For all my tough talk about feeling like I was born the wrong sex or because I was raised by my dad, I have male personality traits . . . I'm a woman. And I hurt. I couldn't swallow my feelings if I tried. I can see and use logic. I have rational thought. Yet . . . I obsess, I worry, I get sad. My first weekend alone was surprisingly nice; however, was it weird to go to bed alone Sunday night and start the week alone? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Funny thought of the day while walking with Gabe:

G: "You wanna get something to eat?"
K: "Nah. I don't have my appetite yet. I get hungry, take two bites and I'm done."
K: "Maybe I'm pregnant. Wouldn't that be a kick in the head? Yeah, M . . I know you dumped me but I'm pregnant with your lovechild."
G: "And I know it's yours because it's doing bad standup. In the womb."


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