And if my face becomes sincere, beware

A rainy Thursday in our fair city.

Seems like it’s been quite a while since I’ve written anything. I don’t know. My life is serialized now. The masses depend on me for glory and vindication. I, like Charles Barkley before me, have become and unwitting role model.

So be it.

Let us write.


We enjoyed a bit of a housewarming party last Friday. Although the turn out was about 1/100th of what we invited, we still managed to enjoy ourselves. What originally began as a Fondu and Beer party (can you guess which half of that dichotomy I am?) devolved almost instantly into a Beer and A Little Bit Of Microwaved Cheese party. Not for lack of trying, but shit, it was Friday. You know how these things go. So some folks came over, and we started it off right.

A moment, if you will, about my effect and impact on the transsexual community.

Being, as I am, an enlightened and tolerant individual, I often come into contact with folks living… alternative lifestyles. Bay Area culture demands not only tolerance for such, but appreciation and delicate social maneuvering.

Now, I’m absolutely OK with people doing what they want. You could marry, have sex with, and divorce a fucking butter churn for all I care. As long as the butter churn is cool with it, so am I. Do not expect me, however, to be sensitive to your deviance.

Being a straight white male, I’m subjected to an inordinate amount of prejudice.


Do you hear that?

That’s the sound of a hundred jaws dropping in abject disgust across Berkeley. In unison.

But lo, it is true. People automatically assume I’m biased against whatever random lifestyle or cause or crusade they’re all about. After all, every white male is born on a golf course with a golden ticket to Harvard and a manual on wifebeating in his hand. It’s true. I still have my copy. DESPITE this, I some how managed to develop into an unbelievably cultured and tolerant person. I am not, however, sensitive. If I had to make one broad, blanket statement to the world and its various self irighteous inhabitants, I would say: “Shut up I don’t care.”

I’m not, for instance, sensitive enough to do research into which set of fucking pronouns you’re using this week. If you were ‘she’ when I met you, you’re ‘she’ till you take me in a fist fight. Cry all the hell you want, but shit, if you were a He you wouldn’t be crying in the first place would you.

Phew, I feel better now. Forgive me my callousness; us simple hetero folk know not the burdens of your sexual… escapades.

Where the hell were we.

The party.

We had folks over, and at some point ended up at a bar. I used my trustworthy technique of not eating lunch or dinner and drinking a lot to make sure I was good and obnoxious before our Lovely Neighbors arrived. We hit the Page like a ton of bricks, but by then things were getting a little dim. I remember shouting at the dudes who came with us. Some fuck tried to correct a computer thing I had written on my fridge, and I screamed at him. Not only because I was hammered, but because I was right. Don’t fucking step to this, you urbanite shitbag. While you were napping in the back of your Medieval Lit class at fucking Chico State I was attending the best engineering school in the nation, so don’t act like you can correct my fucking fridge acronyms. I wish I hadn’t set up the whole house with wireless, just so I’d have something to fucking strangle your ass with. Fool.

So well we had this party. Jean and the Lovely Neighbors brought us an orchid, now christened Yog-Sothoth the Pit Orchid. Cthulhu, the Lily of Sorrow, now has a friend. Que fofinho.

We ate some bread and drank lots of beers and went to the Page. I yelled at people. I remember demanding we find a 24 hour store so I could buy some Cool Ranch Doritos. This wouldn’t be weird if I didn’t absolutely hate Cool Ranch Doritos. Then we went looking for someone’s car… or something…



The phone rings. Again.

How do these people not know me by now? Who dares call on a fucking Saturday Morning at 7:30 or whatever?

I answer.

“I hate you.”

“Good morning to you too, sunshine. How are you feeling?”

“110%. Who the fuck is this.”


“I don’t care.” *click*

I’m curled up under my desk, in a shower curtain. It’s not our shower curtain.

I don’t know whose shower curtain this is.


“Hey there, we must have got disconnected.”

“Fuck that I hung up on you, what the hell do you want?”

“Trevor it’s 3:30.”

“Oh. Whose fucking shower curtain is this?”

I hate mornings like that. I staggered up to go yack. My legs gave out at first, and I noticed a huge bite mark on my right calf. Not one of those light, playful nibbles… some serious hyena shit. God damn what happened last night.

Three hours spent in front of the toilet or sprawled on the couch later, I stumble to the Lovely Neighbors’. They’re painting, and the fumes help me cope.

“Hello, lovely neighbors.”

“Hey, you train wreck. What happened to you last night?”

“You tell me honey. How’d we get back from the Page?”

“We walked.”

“I walked?”

“You seemed OK. Except when you…” “Shhhh don’t tell him that.”

“Don’t tell him what? Is this your fucking shower curtain?”


“Did either of you bite me last night? SHOW ME YOUR TEETH!”


What a fucking nightmare. I’m too old to party like that. I shouldn’t party like a rockstar, I should party like a fuckin concert pianist. I should take naps, and eat a lot of vegetables. Instead, I live beyond my means.

What other option do I have.


God damn so much to recount, but it’s seriously freezing in here.

More tomorrow.



One Response to “And if my face becomes sincere, beware”

  1. Trevor you’ll be fine if your skin, one of your body’s first lines of defense, wasn’t broken :)

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