I Am Femme. You won't forget it.

It's funny how the waves are smaller now.  Oh, I still feel them, but they're weaker.

They're the kind of waves that won't knock you down while you're playing in the ocean.  You know those right?  They just bob your body effortlessly and you go with the flow.

Occasionally, you might not realize they're stronger than you thought, and you might get a little up your nose.

However, it's really only just enough to sting, and then you're back to playing on the edge of the vast sea once more.

Maybe it truly is Hurricane Andréa, and eventually it has to wane.

None-the-less, the wave I felt last night was manageable.

It usually starts with the memory of one comment in particular from an anonymous reader.

... wish i knew who you were to thank you properly ...

This person, male, female or trans,

... don't fucking freak on me if i've missed something bitches ...

... said, "You are always femme!"

I can't find the blog they commented on, or I'd link it.  However, it doesn't matter.  I know I was talking about the pending feeling of becoming invisible.

Once again, last night, I had that pang of anger about being seen to the world as a straight girl.

Being a creative person, I always find a way to get out of this with my lemonade I've made out of those lemons.

When faced with the fear of becoming another straight girl to the world, I've begun to be as visible as possible.

If you're going to judge me anyway, I better make my existence known in a loud manner.

I've put away the comfy jeans.

For me, they're not a good role model in my life.  They are what I judge myself so harshly in, and being baggy, they are really only one step up from sweat pants.

As a femme, I would wear my Levi's as girly as possible.

Not any more.

The only jeans I'm keeping are the ones with rhinestones on the ass from the Dominican, and a few other choice ones that make me feel like a supah-stah!

I've given away sweatshirts, except my favourites for the gym.  Because otherwise, you wear sweatshirts with jeans.  So fuck them.

I've re-arranged my entire wardrobe, so that all my pretty clothes are front and center when it's time to get dressed in the morning.

One perk of brain injury, is if it's out of sight, it's seriously out of mind.  Just like putting fruit in the front 'grabable' part of the fridge so that you'll grab them first, I've created a new system.

What's the difference if I slip on a pair of jeans or slip on a skirt?  Not much, except for the fact that I feel like an award winning femme.

I'm not hiding behind clothes to become the meager femme on the arm of her butch.

No, if I'm going to be an invisible straight woman on the arm of my Tranny, it won't suffice.

I have decided that every day is an opportunity to look as pretty as I possibly can.

Straight?  Let me show you how 'straight' is done.

My whole gay life, I've put that high femme into a back pocket, because I so badly wanted to be recognized in my community.

Fuck everyone.  It didn't work anyway.

I don't care if you think I'm straight or a big ol' dyke in a skirt who happens to have long hair.

You won't be missing me anymore.  Watch me strut as I walk away with my booty following in my wake.

The world can judge me however the fuck they want.

It's time to stop hiding behind clothes and shine my light with every breath I take.

I am femme.

I am always femme.

i create abundance in all i say or do