Wednesday, February 2, 2011


What's good for the goose should be good for the gander right?

Somehow, to me, what Papi wants to do to those oh so perfect breasts is not the same.

There are a few plastic surgeries that I'd entertain having.  Yet, when it comes to how I feel about my love, top surgery is permissible dismembering.

I suppose it's because of the difference between the reasons for our reconstructions.  Mine would be to maintain the pretty femme who seems to be aging, and Papi's are to become more of a beefcake.

Just getting my head around this is going to take a while.

I'm not attracted to femmes, and I'm not attracted to males.  I am definitely attracted to masculine women.  Transgendered women, really.

So, why then, is it so hard for me to understand that this is just an extension of this masculinity that I find so damn hott?

Yes, double 't' hott.

I would be more creeped out if my love got breast implants.  This would be a deal breaker.  Just the thought of my love parading around great DD breasts makes me laugh with absurdity, however my love would like it if I had them.  Papi half jokes and is half serious about this.

Well, here's a question; why do transgendered people have to go to a psychiatrist to get their psyche probed about getting breasts removed, but any woman can just walk in and get them enlarged?  Isn't it the same slicing and dicing of our bodies?

All these surgeries to 'improve' ourselves are out of control.  To me, it's a bit like the youngster I was; slicing my arms in an attempt to declare visible hatred to the person I loathed.

Modern day self-mutilation.  Chop ourselves up to become the person that our mind's eye sees.

I'm more inclined to starve myself to become that person in my head.  Taking the miniature cleaver to my body is not ever going to change the gobs of fat I see in the mirror.  I see a person who is way too big for her liking.  It's just part of the eating disorder that I will live with for the rest of my life, I'm sure.

You see, I know that rationally, being a size 7ish person is not overweight.  But the mirror lies.  I see someone much different than what that waistline says in those pants, dresses etc.

It would be nice to never have to live with a mirror in the house, but then what about doing my hair?

Oh dear.  I've gotten off topic.  I should never start talking about my hair.  It would create a novel.

OK ...

Hacking body parts.

In the horror movies I love to watch, I giggle with glee when parts are severed and butchered.  I know it's not real.  It's entertainment, and I have a sick mind to amuse.

But to think of the real thing in a surgeon's chair of 'let's make ya pretty'?

It saddens me.  I'm not afraid or sickened.  It causes me to cast my eyes down in reduced joy.

I have more respect for myself now than I have ever had, yet I know that given the right lump of cash, I'd get my breasts lifted; I don't want them bigger, I want them smaller.

I'd get that little sagging part of my outer eyelid lifted so that it would stop welcoming the proof of my age.

I'd get the skin under my chin tightened, so that I have a few more years of fooling the world that the turkey neck is not happening.

No.  Not to me!  I couldn't possibly be aging.  I haven't succeeded in all my attempts in life.  I can't be aging yet!

Yes, I'd do these things to my body to cease the itch that is an uncomfortable obsession.

Why is this so different than what my love wants?

What is that all about?

Time for rationale.

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