I'm collecting recipes. No, not the kind for boeuf bourguignon, osso bucco or General Tso's chicken. I've got plenty of those already, and will probably continue to collect them. That means, of course, that I probably won't even try the majority of them.
No, those aren't the recipes I'm talking about. I mean another kind. I'm not voluntarily collecting them; they're finding their way to me. Worst of all, they're all recipes for the same thing: a migraine headache.
The latest recipe is what I experienced yesterday with my family. Yes, that was a great experience for a migraine sufferer like me to have! The brother who's turning the rest of the family against me has come up with the perfect recipe: all he has to do are things he's always done, from the time when we were kids. In other words, he's bullying and otherwise manipulating other family members.
So, for the entire day, I felt that there was a steel cable running through my head and at each of my temples, someone tugged at each end of that cable, which tensed everything inside my head as it frayed.
When I was younger, I used to take solace in the fact that all sorts of geniuses, many of them in the arts, also suffered migraines. It's always good to know that you have something in common with people you admire. I think now of the time when Iwas in my sophomore year in college, I think, and I "came out" to a few friends and family members because, well, I didn't fit anybody's idea of a straight guy, I hadn't had a steady girlfriend and wasn't looking for one. When I told my uncle Sonny, he quipped, "Well, it was good enough for those ancient Greek writers, wasn't it?"
Turns out I'm not a gay man after all. Oh, well: I'll have to find some other common bond with Plato, if I really want one.
But the migraine headaches put me in all sorts of company I want. Not only am I akin, in that sense, to lots of creative people; my throbbing temples prove, once and for all, that I really am a woman in a man's body.
That's what some stupid online quiz says. It purports to tell people whether or not they're really trannies, the male-to-female variety. (They didn't have anything for FTMs.) Even though I passed with flying colors, according to their standards, I'd've laughed my implants (Oh, wait, I don't have them!) off if it weren't so full of stereotypes that, I thought, died out after the last cartoon with Minnie Mouse was made.
"Are you hopeless with math?" Yes, I am. "Do you always find yourself getting lost?" Let's just say that I'm a direct descendant of Columbus and inherited his navigational skills.
You get the idea. Well, at least it's good to know that I'm a genuine-article, gold-medal transgender woman, migraines and all.
It's not the first ridiculous test I've ever taken. I think they're all pretty stupid and utterly useless, even when I do well on them. Yes, I include the GRE, even though I did better on the verbal and writing sections than 95 percent of the people who took it. The math was another story. I guess that's further proof of my gender identity. But, did I need the test to tell me that?
I guess it's good to know that the tests show what I already know. Some people will believe the results of those tests before they'll listen to you recount your feelings and experiences. So I guess I'm safe if I ever need a seal of approval from such people.
Well, I'm going to try to fall asleep with this migraine. Wake me when it's over. I'll still be lousy in math and navigation!
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And So It Begins!
10 hours ago
