Monthly Archives: July 2012

i have a gender tag! (it’s like a name tag for my gender.)

and it looks like this:

i wear it whenever i go out in public; to work, to the grocery store, to the park, etc.  it’s pretty fucking awesome; it makes me feel honest cuz if people care to look, my gender is written right on my fucking chest.  well, actually it’s written on a white sticker stuck to my chest, but you know what i mean.

when people DO misgender me (and they always do), i can point to my gender tag.  i can say stuff like, “my pronouns are singular they/them/their.  please see my gender tag.”  i feel less like i’m hiding behind a facade of cis-ness and more like i’m just doing mx. punk.

sometimes i have rad conversations with strangers because of my gender tag.  this one time at work, a middle aged woman was like, “oh my god!  i’ve been laughing at a young person in my family for saying they were genderqueer!  i totally thought they were making it up; i’m gonna go call them right now!”  she even came back the next week to talk some more about non-binary gender and to tell me that her genderqueer family member was being taken a bit more seriously.  honestly, i had no idea my gender tag would help anyone other than me– but i’m pretty excited that one less person is being ostracized and laughed at because of my li’l old gender tag.

sometimes i have uncomfortable conversations with people because of my gender tag.  i had a customer at work invite me to their church while eying my gender tag.  they also told me drugs were bad (i’ve never even tried drugs, tbh) and that god made men and women in his image.  lulz.

sometimes my gender tag scares me.  like when i’m going someplace new or when i’m working at a wedding or a party (as opposed to when i’m working in a tiny consignment store).  i see people staring at my tag and i get nervous.  i don’t know what i’m scared of, but my heart works a little harder when i know someone’s reading my gender tag.

mostly, though, i’m really stoked about my gender tag.  it’s a rad conversation-booter and it sorta alleviates my social dysphoria.

do you experience social dysphoria and if so, how do you deal with it in the presence of strangers?  talk to me, please!

the disturbing tale of mx. punk’s fur/hair

and now, a word on my hair: “ew.”  cuz if it’s awesome/sexy/cute/powerful, it isn’t hair—it’s fur.  if it ISN’T awesome/sexy/cute/powerful, it’s hair.  at least, those are the rules in my silly head.  i don’t know why i think fur is inherently awesome while hair is inherently icky, but i totally do.  fortunately, everybody who isn’t me seems to only grow fur.  (see? i’m only judging myself.  nobody else.)

as it turns out, while my partner grows fur on his legs—i grow HAIR on my legs.  patchy, sparse, bristly HAIR.  not thick and wiry enough to be awesome, but way too long to be invisible (and therefore differently-awesome).  yes, i tried growing out my leg hair for the first time in ETERNITY.  well, years, anyway.  i let it grow til it stopped growing; i kept waiting for it to come in dark and thick and long and curly.  alas, my leg hair did not oblige.

i think i’d stared at my sweetheart’s furry legs so often that i expected my legs to magically look like his (ka-ZAM!) if i stopped shaving them.  i didn’t really think that one through.

so i shaved my legs in defeat, i rubbed some beeswax/olive oil mixture-of-awesome into my newly-shaven flesh, and i relaxed.  cuz apparently, growing hair on my legs freaks me the fuck out.  for something that happens naturally, it sure does feel wrong.

i suspect i’m just used to having softsoft legs for me to pet and rub together.  rubbing my soft legs together is kinda my hobby.  i’m totally doing it right now, actually!  *rubs bare legs together*  i think that’s part of why i will shave my legs til i fucking die.

the other part might be the patriarchy—who knows?  i am mysterious.  even if the patriarchy is in my head telling me that i have to keep my legs soft and hair-less—fuck it.  i still get pretty upset when i let my leg hair grow.

anyway, the leg hair thing ended with me just shaving my legs and (ka-ZAM!) i was instantly cured of my malaise, but then i decided to get a fucking haircut.  cue the dramatically tragic music!

i got a haircut (“fur-cut?”).  yes.  i looked weird.  i couldn’t figure out how to make my new hair look all mx. punky (that means my hair wanted to lie flat rather than stand on end).  i tried endless styling techniques/substances  (including eggs!).  i literally spent hours in front of the mirror trying to transform my hair into fur.

and meanwhile, i refused to leave the house.  i refused to do anything other than try to “fix” my hair.  (i’m really not proud of this, btw.  at all.  i have no idea how my sweetheart remained as composed and kind as he did.)

after days of drama, i finally realized that i could just style my hair the way i did before i got that fateful haircut (gel + bunning = wild mx. punk fur).  and then everything was totally awesome and my sweetheart apparently didn’t want to kill me or anything (i deserved death, imo).  so, yay?

i’ve come to the conclusion that my power is in my fur.  seriously.  i just wanted to tell you this story so you’d know how to defeat me in mortal combat; cut my fur.  or drench it, thereby destroying my powerful locks.

that is all, lovelies.