Women on Testosterone are Hawt.

This is probably what the headline of the the story I filed yesterday for the local paper should have read. Maybe those overnight editor bitches wouldn't have edited out the heart (along with 3/4 of the copy) and buried the goddamned story on B12. I had been promised 25 inches of front-page newshole for this pup.

I have got to start publishing somewhere else. In fact, I think I'll start sending out the original piece I wrote about the first ever FTM (female-to-male) Transgender Conference in the state. Actually it was the first transgender conference full stop in the state, perhaps the friggin' region. I'll have to look that up.

But it was a beautiful thing to see so many people who had felt so isolated come together to talk openly about their struggles, their identities, their attempts to show up in this world and be loved--truly--for who they are. They were kind, compassionate and generous--so eager to educate and make me, and through me, the community comfortable in their presence. It would never have occurred to me to judge any one of them. I see them as heroes.

So after I turned around the story in two hours for my deadline, I bought groceries and picked up "Breakfast on Pluto," a film I had already watched twice. Now I have watched it four times, once with commentary by Neil Jordan and Cillian Murphy. A part of me wants to drop out of everything I know, go off, dream it all up again, and then enroll in film school. Maybe. Although I don't think I have the vision to produce and direct. I'm just a friggin' writer after all. But I see so many similarities in theme and scope between my screenplay in progress and "Pluto."

I know it sounds like I might be leading up to an announcement that I am planning to become a man, but this is in fact not the case. Yes, I'm a gay cowboy on the inside, but I'm one of those gay cowboys who likes dressing up all girly and dating manly men. I learned yesterday that there are actually four male-female continuums upon which we must locate ourselves. Or so said the massage therapist trans man who I think really just wanted to know where I fell on those continuums so he could figure out what kind of massage I might let him give me. Meh. No go. Too bad, though. Because it would seem that a man who has had the experience of living in a woman's body might be the most compassionate and ideal mate for a straight gal. Who the hell knows. I've never seen an ideal mate of any kind whatsoever, so I'll reserve judgment.

But back to "Pluto," the story of a trans woman abandoned by her mother in 1950s Ireland. In the context of 1970s Ireland at the height of "The Troubles" she begins a quest for her mother, but on the way finds herself through and despite cruel lovers, terrorism, hatred, disownment, abuse. . . . the most interesting part of it all is that she doesn't really have to find herself--she was there from the get go. She finds love and acceptance without changing who she is. Could there be a more triumphant story?

I sure as shit hope mine makes its way to the same ending. Damn.

I've had a strange week. Spent most of my energy kindly fighting off unwanted sexual advances from an authority figure without compromising my dignity and work. Friday I was as close to emotional exhaustion as I think I've ever been. Then I hung out with the embracing trannies Saturday and that helped. Then the paper supremely fucked up my story and ran it with my byline. I'm pissed. And not getting any closer to finishing my final papers for a lit professor who has been so kind to grant me an extremely generous extension. I need a vacation. I've been working too hard on every possible level. Still hussling to make ends meet, though. Crazy.

Could someone please arrange for more money than I need to fall on my lap without strings attached? Please and thank you.

In the meantime, I'll continue to do everything I can not to abandon myself in the midst of intense emotional chaos. I guess it's all I can do.