Shit kickin' boots.

I channeled my inner redneck for Ladies Night.

I dressed for the part, right down to my dog tag I wear every day with utter pride.  It's the one I received from the Queer Arts Festival this summer.  You remember the one?  The Queer As Fuck award!

One this day, I felt it was the perfect accessory for my power suit.

Every day, I dress in my prettiest clothing, sometimes wackiest colours, to make my femme presence known.

This time, I didn't want to wear it for shooting guns.

I did the last few times.  It's fine to wear a skirt, but from this point forward, I feel that I must don my jeans and boots.

I pulled every little eyelet of my 'Sidekick' Dayton Boots taut.  I exerted myself, as I wrapped that stout leather around my ankles and shins.

That of course was after I'd slithered into my tightest, most badass jeans I have.

This was not a night for my Dominican jeans with rhinestones on the ass pockets.

No, this was a night for Diesel Indian, Bootcut jeans.

They pull my figure into a tiny little package of strength and 'don't mess with me' attitude.

You could never pull the femme from me, so I still felt pretty with my locks hanging down around my shoulders.

In order to fit in the with the bio-boys, I especially chose my camo sweatshirt to wear nice and snug under my riding leather.

Of course, I no longer have a license to ride my motorcycle, or any other vehicle for that matter.  Even if I did, my dearly departed bike was killed in the motorocycle accident.

Still, I kept my leather jacket.  Only problem is, as I went into the closet in Our Closet, I realized it's in storage!

I had to settle for my black jean jacket with a few lacy bits behind the buttons.

No matter, because all together, they give me a certain amount of strength.

My boots hold my feet firm on the ground, with their sturdy heels.

Not to mention their pointy tips, that are seriously good for the off-chance that I may need to kick someone in the balls.

Strength.  I'm searching for my strength.

It's my power suit.

She means business.

When we arrived at the shooting range, I walked in with confidence.  Every boot step sounded as I crossed the floor.

It was like I was wearing a red dress.

It was my space.

My night.

When I shot those tiny silver bullets from my .22, the gun ranger realized he didn't need to help me, saying, "you're really doing good!" then turned his focus on My Gratitude Buddy and my friend I got to know a little better.

They're another member of the Pariah Club.  They fit in just fine.

The only thing I needed the gun ranger to do for me, was load me another cartridge so it was ready for my next round.

Of course, my two buddies were in it for the fun, as they shot their 357 Magnum.  I stuck to my .22 and 9mm.

If you didn't see the outcome of my new shooting expedition, you have to take a peek at it from yesterday.

I'm getting better.

I'm finding my strength.

I'm finding more confidence.

I'm finding that I WILL be protecting myself without any hesitation.

With that, I'm finding more peace.

I'm also finding a new bond with my shit kickin' boots.

i have only positive mental pictures

Ick.

Had to make a quick speech last night for Queer Arts Festival.

I have some bastard virus and a fucked up bitch of a back.

I was tired from the evil pills I have to take for this level of pain.

I didn't shine.

I didn't sparkle.

I don't think I even smiled.

What have I become?!?!?!

That is not performing Andréa!!!

It was so sad to walk off the stage and realize I just went through the motions.

At least I did it.

Fuck.

I can't have a redo when I'm better.

Really, I slept all day, woke up at 8 pm, threw my locks into an elastic noose and plastered make up on in the car.

Someone still told me I looked really pale.

Not performing Andréa.

Then I got home, took it all off and slept for another 10 hours.

Sound boring?

It is.

So I won't torture you with anymore of this silliness.

I'm going to go sweat now.

Ick.

i am healthy

Queer as Fuck!

As we prepare meals for the Fuzzy Family, we stand in our kitchen of temporary home #1 and realize that this room is probably about the same space as our living room and kitchen put together in Our Closet.

It occurred to us that we're going to be wading through four legged fiends to get to the bathroom.

454 sq. ft. is crazy!  If Papi and I don't fight in this tiny place, then damn, we can live anywhere!

I'm going to be without a dishwasher as well.

Good god.  That will be the most frightening part.

Did you know I make every meal from scratch?  This creates a lot of mess in my kitchen.

Papi doesn't have to worry about that part.

He's on a special diet of McDonald's for breakfast, Quizno's for lunch and Tim Horton's for dinner.  He chases those down with a muffin occasionally.

That and his pop.

He'll be responsible for bringing out his fast food garbage I guess.  He'll be doing that while I'm cleaning the kitchen.

It's about to make me want to purge even more.

I swear to god, I've never had so little to move in my life, thanks to The Great DR Purge.  We have nothing.

I couldn't believe it, when we went to the attic to organize what we have to put in my baby sister's storage, and it only took 15 minutes to prepare.

To be honest, the anxiety that comes with 'stuff' never occurred to me, because I've lived the life of a hoarder since I was taught to do so by my grandparents who survived the depression.

Keep EVERYTHING!!  Good god man!!!  You never know when you'll need it!!

This was my way of living.

So, when I found out that I had won a gift from Queer Arts Festival, I felt that I was uncomfortable with something more coming to our home.

That reaction really surprised me.

I realized that I'm actually stopping the packrat mentality!

Anyway, here's what I missed out on:

I won the 'Queer As Fuck Award' for all the volunteering I do for them every week for 4 hours!

When I was offered a ride to temporary home #2 by Papi, I skipped out of the award festivities and took my ride to the other side of the pond.

I left that night before the awards were given out, because I never get awards and didn't think I'd be missing out on anything personally.

Then I found out what they'd given me, because they took a video of it and sent it to me!!!

They gave me a gift that I appreciated immensely, only it doesn't go to me.

They gave a family in Haiti a goat, in my name, and a super duper dog tag to wear around my neck, with my award engraved upon it.

I just about cried while I watched this.

Then, being true to my personality, I berated myself for not being there to accept such a great moment.

... stupid! stupid! stupid! she says ... fuck! she's so mean!! ...

However, I probably would have cried in front of the whole audience, and cleaning up that mess is just nasty.

People may have thought I was bipolar and called the authorities.

... does this blog make me sound BPD? ...

Anyway, this was probably one of the greatest awards I've received, and for my 'rough around the edges friends' to know me so well, to give a family the goat they need, well, that made my year.

I'm so fucking grateful and proud.

 i am somebody, and i count

Hell of Halitosis!

It's such a beautiful day.

Not just the weather, but because I get to see my love for the afternoon.

Our date has no schedule or timed itinerary, and I don't care.  I just want to be with Papi no matter what.

Our day will involve a visit with the G'ma, who is still giving us the guilt trip for 'abandoning and neglecting her, and forcing her into a home while we take over her house'.

... you know the drill ...

Anyway, Papi now has 7 days of healing.  I'm 7 days happier.

Yet still, I just want to go home NOW.  I want to renege on my 'rule' of not being there for 2 weeks until his socks are fully pulled up.

Yet, I won't, because I'm too afraid of what that will bring.

I miss my Fuzzy Family so much.  It's nice to have Java the Mutt here for a distraction, but he's not my babies.

The last time I went to the house, The Mrs. gave me the cold shoulder.

There is nothing more heartbreaking than an Fuzzy Family member snubbing you.

It adds to the sadness.

To know that this whole thing is affecting each and every one of us just sucks.

Such is the life of us addicts.  We really do affect everyone around us.

It's made me realize that a lot of my pain around Papi using is really not about my love having a weak time, it's my own P.T.S.D.

When I had to leave the home with the heroin addict I was in love with, it was torture.

I grieved for 2 years over the fact that I couldn't help her, couldn't change her, and couldn't suffer watching her disintegrate to dust.

She didn't really wither, however, she just cleaned up her act a bit so that I looked like I was lying about her addiction.

That created a whack-load of Hen Peckers who to this day believe that I was only trying to cause trouble and make her look bad.

When I had to leave mi esposo on his night of the big ending, it was like reliving that hell all over again, and there I was.  In agony once more.

I had to leave the addict again.  I believed that Papi would spiral down and that would be it for our marriage.

I believed the worst.

It's hard not to when you're living in my brain with my life experiences.

I've lived the worst and come out the other end every time, but knowing the pain I had to endure to get out of the Pit of Doom was so deep, I was terrified.

I'm grateful I have medication for my chemical imbalance, and I'm able to get out of the hell a little faster than I used to, but it's still not comfortable.

Nor is it good for my breath.

Yeah.

I get a nice heaping load of halitosis when I get stressed.  My stomach can't handle the acid and out it comes, wafting through my mouth like great wads of green stench you'd only imagine from the Grinch.

Or the Malboro.

Last night someone told me how bad my breath was and I felt like crying, dying, and crawling under a rock, but I couldn't.

I was there to sell tickets to the public for the Queer Arts Festival.

Person after person would come up and I'd be speaking with my mouth covered, or I tried to talk as loud as I could from as far away from them as possible.

I felt embarrassment like you could never imagine.

However, I know that this is the deal and I carry my toothbrush around with me everywhere anyway for my brace face, so I just brush a whole lot and try my best to keep my distance.

Good thing I have dogs in my life.  They don't care about my Buffalo Breath.

Apparently, neither does Papi.

i heal all issues affecting my self-confidence

quickie!

Not much time to write again.

Not easy living out of a suitcase, but when you wake up in the morning and see this:

You kinda smile a little.

Java the Mutt was very grateful for his morning breakfast, even though it was only a half cup because he managed to sneak a double feast out of myself and my Eternal Friend last night.

So he was on a bit of a reduced diet this morning.

Off I go to start my day, have a Papi sighting and go volunteer for Queer Arts Festival.

i am confident in myself

munch.

I've had some good advice here.  One of my Blogger Friends told me that I need to move around to get the anaesthesia  out of my system.

I started with that yesterday.

I was also reminded by My ever so brilliant Gratitude Buddy, that the depression is probably also partly due to being stuck in the basement.

Dungeon Syndrome.

I got out of the house, had hugs from My Gratitude Buddy, saw all the wonderful people on the Queer Arts Festival board, and guess what!?!

I ate!

We went out for sushi, and I had miso soup.  Then I decided I would take all the shrapnel out of my mouth and see how wide I can open, and I ordered edimame.

I pulled those little teeny balls of yum out of their shell and stuck them through my now one finger tip width of a space.

Then!

I ate tamago!

Not with the rice.  I just had the egg part and broke it into little pieces which fit through as well.

So happy!!

So, now that I'm able to smile without pain, eat soft food and be out of the house, I'm too busy doing all of the above to really have a good conversation with 'you', my imaginary friend.

But don't think I'm not thinking of you.

I have plenty to bitch about.

I'll be back tomorrow.

Today I'm going on my first bus ride as a non-driver.

... sigh ...

But I know that it will be a good day.  I get to volunteer for Queer Arts Festival.

I'm packing my soft food and all the goodies I need to clean this mess of a mouth.

Back to my life.

i am strong and healthy

Butch Tits.

Tranny.

I thought I'd say it again just to piss 'them' off.  If I'm going to be bitchy from insomnia, then the rest of you must suffer with me.

Besides, how could I live up to my shit disturber title, if I didn't poke the hornets nest on a daily basis?

One thing I thought about last night until the sun came up this morning, was why I got on those little pharmaceutical puff pills in the first place.  It was to stop the pain and help me sleep.

Well, tough titties.

I'm still going to search for a way to get through the night.

Oh, and speaking of titties, another thing I thought about last night, was how much I miss them.

I grieve them.

I miss just rolling over in bed and having a palm full of pillowy, plush puppies to paw.

I feel like there's something missing from my life now.

I realized, they're never coming back.

If I want to feel those soft familiar friends, I'll have to play with my own.

However, they're not as fun.

I suppose I could take up Papi's offer and play with other women's mammillas, but they still aren't the breasts I married.

It's those breasts I want.

As I listened to Papi snore away the night, I cursed him.  Not for permanently taking away my funbags, but for sleeping better than me and not doing his evening chore of putting Psycho Kitty upstairs.

I was exhausted enough, that I merely laid and listened to the Tom Cat Operetta till the wee hours of morning.

And no, that has nothing to do with boobs, but I thought I'd throw that in there because I'm mother fucking tired and bitchy.

Back to boobs.

Every Wednesday, I volunteer for Queer Arts Festival for 4 hours.

4 hours of sorting papers that have been thrown into boxes for years upon end of neglect gets a little monotonous, so I look around at the walls of the office.

Basically, I get do this in a gallery of photos taken by S.D Holman.

Butch Tits.

Everywhere.

Some I recognize, ...

... not from personal experience ...

... some that look like they'd be days of funbag fondling, others that are pert enough to cut glass.

But Butch Tits everywhere.

It saddens me.

I sit in my composing room and create music, while staring at the only pic I have of my love exposed in all his prior butch glory.

With Butch Tits.

This is one of the hard parts of this transformation.

I know there's a few, but most of it has calmed.  I suppose with any loss, there's a certain amount that will never really go away.

I guess I'm no different.

Butch Tits.

I miss them terribly.

i release all fear ...

Loss.

It was such a lovely start to my day today.

Morning coffee with one of my sweetest friends.

Of course, I was late.  I didn't set my alarm properly, because our hang out wasn't documented in my phone, hence I forgot.

sometimes, i think i'll never get better from this ridiculous brain injury!!!!!

That was of course, until I woke up and saw the message from her,"I'm in the coffee shop, see you soon!"

That brought on the 1 minute brushing of horrid morning breath, a hat to conceal my almost dreadlocked curls, a backwards shirt that now has toothpaste on it, and my day old socks I'd slept in to keep my tootsies warm at night.

Can you say, "Classy?!?!?"

Hey.

I never admitted to being classy in the first place.

I'm just your run of the mill white trash verging on redneck femme who managed to get out of the house in 5 minutes flat.

I got the the coffee shop, had a quick cuddle with my sweet friend, ordered coffee and went to squeeze my dose of honey in, when I was duped by some mother fucker who left the cap off.

So.

The entire lid and a really massive glop of honey went 'gloop' into my coffee.

No worries!

They made me another one, and handed me a really clean honey bear.  It's not often you get to have the 'cleaned' honey bear at a coffee shop.

From there it got better.

We did our best to catch up in a half hour, but it's never enough with her.  We need a full day to really get caught up.

But we did get to talk about Papi and I.

It's interesting to see someone you haven't seen in a while and be able to look at your current life situation and see how much has changed.

It's a bit akin to writing out your work résumé.  I don't know about you, but I feel pride when I see my life's attainments in one page.

Well, what I realized through our chit-chat is that I am doing well.

But I am feeling loss.

Those pictures of butch breasts at the Queer Arts Festival office still have me missing my love's soft tender breasts.

While talking about it with my friend, I could almost feel my love's cool plump nipple against my cheek.

I could almost feel the encounter of rubbing my fingertips along mi esposo's ample mounds.

I'll never get to feel them again.

The Great Breast Disappearance has created a huge loss.

The good news is, I am now at the place where I can stroke the healing scars on mi esposo's empty cavity, that was once an abundance of supple sweetness.

My love has always said that if I wanted to touch other women's breasts, that there would be no issue on Papi's behalf.

However, none of them are the beautiful mamms that I once held and felt against my own bosom.

Loss.

I suppose I'm now at the acceptance part of the 5 stages of grief.

Now that I'm here, is it supposed to stop hurting?

Well, it doesn't.

Ignorance is Bliss.

So, it came to my attention when I wrote my last blog.

I'm not talking about this one that I wrote after my composing panic attack.

I'm talking about the actual blog that I wrote here.

You see, I have this little 'matter' with my brain.

It got scrambled in the motorcycle accident, and occasionally, entire happenings merely go missing from my brain files.

It's kinda like what arose the other day when Papi attempted to use my composing tower to print out the needed papers for his medical EI.

Bad Papi!  He lost all my current composing files.

and has now been banished from my composing tower ... he may only play his 'sims' game on my laptop where lesser important items are kept ...

One of my BFFs, who is also my BlueLight partner and boss from Boomsmack Records, told me that's not possible.

oh! and btw ... if you'd like to help me do my job, take a moment and 'like' each of these here links on facebook. it will make my boss happy hehehe

Oh, but yes it is possible, because in my world, the strangest things will happen, and happen it did.  No files.  Nothing.  Fuck all.  Gone.

Anyway, I digress yet again.  That has nothing to do with my brain injury.  That's just my personality.  I'm all over the map.

So, I wrote this blog the other day with absolutely no recollection that I had already written about it here.

Now, the difference between the two, is that one is telling you about the marriage certificate that we already had changed to 'male & female', and the other blog is telling you that if Papi asked to have the marriage certificate changed from 'female & female' into 'male & female' that I'd put my wobbly foot down and say, "Hell fucking no!!"

However, it has already been done.

This example of insanity was brought to you by the letters and punctuation of: WTF?!

But you know what?

Sometimes my brain injury does me justice.  I get to pretend that things are in my brain they way I like them.

That is of course, until Papi bursts my bubble.

Yes.

It already happened.

Yes.

I still have my marriage certificate in my office where I get to see it along side of my sweet Papi pre-male transformation.

It's a hot 'n sexy pic of the most perfect butch ever, with breasts peeking ever so naughty between my love's opened leather vest.

Well, I was volunteering yesterday at the Queer Arts Festival office and there were scrumptious picture of butches all over the walls, complete with a few butch breasts proudly displayed for my perusal.

It made me so sad to know that I'll never get to touch my love's breasts ever again because of The Great Breast Disappearance.

I almost cried, but fortunately for me, I forgot they were even there when I got obsessed with organizing papers for filing.

You see?

Brain injury is not so bad.

It's good in an, 'i'm not really here', sorta way.

Ahhhh.

Ignorance is truly bliss.