Melting Down and Casting

Yesterday I had my first autistic meltdown since the one that means I no longer see my Eldest. The day prior I had, on the way home, been accosted by two people who informed me that I was "that Nancy fucking paedo bus driver outted on that FaceBook group for touching kids! Fucking nonce!" and then continued in a similar vein, ending with an exhortation to "watch [my] fucking back! You shouldn't be touching kids, you fucking nonce! Ought to be fucking locked up!" This was confusing to me, did not know how to respond. I bought a frozen pizza and ate it for tea after reporting the incident to the Police who informed me that it counted as a hate crime. Oh.

🤭 It says 'nob' 🤭 

This had followed me challenging a nice older gent on the bus for supporting Reform. Urging him to consider as they want to end my legal right to exist. His response, "I didn't know you were trans" was fascinating but said with a smile. Honestly don't know what to make of that either. Anyway, the following day was supposed to be me helping at a Hallowe'en thing with work, which meant driving in costume from 0600 and then finishing early, at 1445, to help set up for a 1500 start and then handing sweets out to children until around 1730-1800. I was looking forward to it. Really looking forward to it. I had also tried being less guarded the previous day online. I actually told people my actual real feelings and let some guards down. I was nervous, that sort of thing doesn't usually end well.

After the hate crime, I was on the phone to my Mum and came clean about Miss and my Little Sis online and about LLI and being a Little. After all, if I was letting my guard down, I probably ought to let her know at least. She counselled me not to be too excited, reminded me that when I get excited I tend to lose sight of things and that's when things go wrong. She counselled that I dial everything back, knuckle back down and enjoy things, but not as intensely. I quibbled, but I had a worry - she's not wrong.

Swearing did not, in fact, help.

At all.

Yesterday started alright, actually, the hellish week of shifts was abating, I actually had enough sleep, and, apart from the hate crime, I was feeling reaonably chipper. I told work about the hate crime, they were very supportive and I brushed it all off - nothing that could be done anyway - and was going to bury it in happy with the Hallowe'en plans. And, at first, that seemed to be working. Huge positive reactions from passengers, not my normal route, where there were any at all. Then, as it was raining and I was a bit later than I'd like, my windscreen wipers packed in. I pulled in safely, rang for help. I was on hold for twenty minutes. I transferred passengers to another bus. One was asleep. I don't recall her getting on - turns out she'd been on, asleep, for a couple of round trips. She was clearly under some influence and became irritable and abusive, sweary and difficult. Took me another twenty minutes to get her off the bus. Then I drove to the nearest depot. Took some time. Bodging took more time. It was now 1500. I drove the bus back to where I was suposed to be helping, got stuck in traffic. I was feeling irritable and upset. Were I a toddler I would call it close to having a tantrum.

No, see, I was nearing meltdown, but was unaware.

My break had included some colleagues discussing voting Reform, to get rid of the nonces and paedos (news of former Prince Andrew's disgrace was playing). I gently pointed out the issues I had with Reform. I was challenged: fake news. I showed them the manifesto. They responded "yeah, but that's not why I'd vote for them." Not the best showing from me. Anyway, as I brought the bus in around 1610 I was feeling fractious. I thought I'd be okay, but I was sad I was late and had no clue where everything was. As a colleague asked what had happened to the bus, he was supposed to take it back, I lost it.

Photo for attention. 

(It was Monday). 

I hit the bus several times and swore at it loudly and fulsomely. I kicked it. I shouted, may have screamed. I calmed, I thought, but I could feel the energy coursing. I apologised to my colleague, who was shocked but sympathetic. I didn't notice properly, but as I went into the break room to pay in, I was shaking. I was asked what had happened. I smiled thinly and said "don't ask." Someone else asked, more insistently, I flashed my eyes and barked, "I said don't ask!" Then someone did the 'handbags at dawn motion' and went "oooo!" I lost it. I shouted something like "I fucking said, don't fucking ask, so DON'T. FUCKING. ASK. Leave me the fuck alone!" And slammed my stuff down hard enough that the desk phone nearby sprang off the wall and skittered across the floor. The shock was such that some ten or so male bantering bus drivers fell completely silent for about two minutes. And I realised that I was shaking. My throat hurt. I was close to crying. Oh, some distant part of my brain announced, it's a meltdown.

I finished up, stalked from the room, eventually managed to find where the Halloween stuff was happening and, as I tried to explain to my Team Leader even an ounce of what had happened and why I was now over an hour and a half late I found myself crying. I moved to somewhere secluded and cried on my own for a bit. Then I phoned to sort out some over-payment so I wouldn't be £3 down - I organise, it's a coping strategy of sorts - and then told big boss man who had appeared as if by magic that I maybe ought to go home.

I'd already had the presence of mind to cancel seeing Youngest at the Hallowe'en thing and cancel Middlest coming over immediately after I finished work to stay the night. That may have been my last sensible non-meltdown-y act actually. I bobbed back into the break room to apologise, not sure what good it did, and then went home. Tried to phone Mum. It... I feel like I'm trying to explain fears about the Nazis to someone who gets they're a bad idea, but I'm a fucking Jew. Assurances that "it won't get that bad" or "try not to think about it" no longer wash. The slimy tentacle of fear has unwrapped with the hate crime and embraced me hard. I know who that pair vote for.

It was a hard conversation.

It ended well.

Mum remembers me ending being emotional too. I supported her when my Dad left. I didn't let anyone in to support me. Gary tried. So did Tim. I locked them, and everyone else, out. I upset my brother by trying to support him too. One of the reasons we are the way we are, I guess, that rift never healed. Mum repeated that she was glad to see the child I had been coming back, the happy child that slowly disappeared, she had always assumed because Dad left, but maybe also gender stuff (reader: it was both).

But my Little Sis was in touch. She had a task, wanted support doing it. And, you know what? It helped. I could feel myself calming, feel the meltdown leaving. I mean, Mum helped too, but I can't deny that doing something utterly silly (an essay on respectful language) was just what I needed. Miss is on holiday, but was in touch as we finished. She didn't say much, but it meant something to me. Still does. Little Sis pushed through some childhood trauma, made a huge breakthrough. And I was there to help. I was there to see. I was there to see it land and get just some of the recognition it deserved. I saw her actually look happy with praise and actually accept it without argument for the first time since we started talking. It was an incredible privilege. And I feel like I helped. Maybe I did, maybe I didn't, but I felt like I helped. That's good enough. And I got some praise from Miss about it too. It was nothing, really, I don't think either she nor Little Sis are at all cognisant of what I'm getting from all of this. But it hit home. Hard.

It really doesn't take much, does it? 🫣🫣

I know I shall have to face work again on Tuesday. But, for now, Middlest is over. I made salads for the next five days. I have a curry to make tonight. I have a Sister to help clean her room tomorrow. And I will. So help me, I'm excited.

Invulnerability

Two posts in a couple of days of each other? Goodness, is this 2012 or something?

No. But it is a post that you may not wish to be reading, dear reader, delving into the topic, as it does, of human sexuality and such. I mean, this whole blog does that, I know, but I'm going to get personal (because, let's face it, I have precious little other experience or research on which to draw). Anyway, yes, lots of musings on the buses means that I have plenty of words to spew and a topic that is mainly close to my heart. I suppose I can justify it on the grounds of it being something that may be relevant to a trans perspective (wherever one falls under that umbrella or if one is wondering if one is near it) but, well, it still gets a TMI tag - but for a different reason. Again, this is more for your protection than mine. In the meantime, before the line break, have a photo montage of me this morning feeling 'pretty' and 'cute'. No, really, I felt those things of myself and internally and everything. I don't know that I've felt those before. Well, no, I'm reasonably certain I've felt 'pretty' but not 'cute'.

Hee! The incredibly rare lesser-spotted
cute Joanna seen here just prior to doing battle
with the adulting tasks of the day.

Line break is here, by the way, a video will follow should you need time to bail.

Mine Sweeping

I continue to feel busy without actually being busy. My eyes are feeling a bit better though, which is nice. I've also made a concerted effort to actually decode my old coded diary. Properly. Not just skimming the opening looking for stuff I kinda sorta remembered, but a full decode. I've got about 22 pages in and... okay, so there's a lot more buried in there than I remembered.

Before moodling on that, Middlest came over for a visit and we went and had tea out after they made the miniature of the month at a Warhammer shop (I'm sad they're no longer called 'Games Workshop' but, like, I get it - they've focussed on a core element and dropped nearly everything else). Important upshot? Middlest ate a whole meal! And enjoyed it! It's a small thing, but made me feel maybe a little bit less of a poor parent. I've done another extra shift on a day off, as the family were plague-ridden following their holiday and I had no other plans for the day (at that point I hadn't started the decoding), and so that's happened.

Last week was all late shifts, this week all early shifts and next week all long middle shifts. So not much chance to see people or do stuff. I also started making and eating salads as a lunch rather than soups (I don't make those, I buy cans). Too many people eating salads and making them look and taste nice. Yes, I am giving you side-eye Tim's family and my Mum!

I also had a chap over to look at the bathroom and other bits and bats - so now I have booked actual factual repairs for my shower cubicle, bathroom ceiling, bathroom flooring, plastering in the living room, skirting boards in the dining room and potentially a new shower as well. For November. For approximately what I thought it'd cost for all that stuff (£6k). But, like, I have been saving for this, sorta kinda, since summer 2021 so...

Finished reading another book today, which I shall have to review as well as the Power when I get round to it: mainly because I genuinely can't work out if it was a YA novel or not. Equally, how muchy was historically researched and how much based on 'vibes' (my feeling is more vibes than research based on my own shonky understanding of the period in which it's set - also when the narrative reaches back into history further back it is constrained by knowing very little beyond what must have turned up in sweeping through period appropriate literature - luckily nothing was plot specific). I enjoyed it, don't get me wrong, I've read far worse! And I shall enjoy the sequel too, I think. But Rivers of London it was not.

Oh, yes, long buried stuff from an old diary...

Here's a page that I have already decoded
for illustration purposes.

This one hasn't used any symbols obliterated
in the code book, near as I can tell.

An episode of being a creepy little shit which I clearly decided to bury and memory hole because I can't recall any of it terribly well - though when decoding a mammoth entry dealing with the rising horror of realisation about being a creepy little shit I did get an emotional ghost memory of how I felt at the time and had to take a break for a day to recover. I'm not joking, it was horrible. But, also, a mammoth entry, a couple so far actually, that spell out in vocabulary-limited prose my very obvious trans-gender-ness. I obliterated the symbols and translations in the code book but, given that I spelled most out first before adopting a symbol later, I've been able to mostly figure it out from context (a couple of symbols still elude me). And, then, almost immediately after the most obvious signalling of what I felt... nothing. I don't know if I never go back to it again or not, but my suspicion is that this coincides with the obliteration of stuff in the code book and may also coincide with a memory of some... experimentation shall we say that I had dated, erroneously it turns out, to 1996 and had not fully invested with the importance that I had in 1998 (evidenced by the way my planning is talked about in the diary - it's my usual specifically non-specific style, plenty of filler words and phrases).

And here's a page I haven't decoded yet.

It's the 'new' code.

Anyway, I'm keeping going with that, I hope to get into my early University stuff and thence to when it appears the last entry is dated (2003?) after I switch code almost entirely and write around 28 pages in that code. Looks like that is all after 2001. Implying a prolific end to a badly maintained diary and/or journal. Not sure what the difference is. However, I do note that in what I have decoded so far, I shall drop big emotional things then immediately pivot to innoculous details of a day or homework or TV shows - like I couldn't really bring myself to commit to the emotions I was feeling nor what was causing them. In some cases I can't even tell what's spooking me because I am so obtuse that there's no discernible evidence left of what I was avoiding!

One final, TMI, thing I discovered from my decoding that I really don't know what to make of... and this is mainly filler to give people time to decide not to read the next paragraph...

Yeah, here's the TMI:

So, apparently, I first masturbated (it's referred to as 'making myself cum' and there's a separate bit where I spell out 'masturbation' so I'm not sure I viewed it the same way, goodness knows what the difference was at the time) just two months before I turned 18. Which is... huh... later than I thought. Most of my early... arrivals seem to have been achieved solely using the power of imagination in kinda semi lucid dreaming (that half-waking state between having been asleep and rising) with my notorious (to me) first arrival being just a month earlier. Meaning, apparently, I didn't finish at all before this point. Which I relate because I'm not sure that's a. normal or b. healthy. Or maybe this is common for trans-teens, I dunno. <insert shrug emoji>

Aaand, we're done, no more TMI. You can come back now.

So, yeah, a foray into my past, filled with landmines apparently, and me wearing not enough body-armour. But, hey, decoding stuff that has lain unread for... at least twenty or so years.

Ribbons of Colour

And in your eyes,
I see ribbons of colour...

It appears no images exist of my old accommodation
block online.

My brain recently reminded me that Falling Into You was a song that I was briefly obsessed with back around the time I went to Uni. I missed it as a single by at least one year (maybe two) and ended up buying the album of the same name in time enough to have it to play when I went. I had forgotten the lyrics.

I see us,
inside of each other.

Whilst driving I have been assaulted with ideas again. Well, I say ideas, I have stolen a couple of  ideas from stories (one I read in 2009 and the other a self-published friend in 2014) and been brainstorming how I might use them in a more... smutty story. Anyway, the setting resolved itself to be my University halls room and, thus, my brain catalogued some of the music I played at the time. And, in playing the song again, it reminded me of why I was obsessed with it - because I knew at the time, before I buried it again...

I feel my unconscious merge with yours,
And I hear a voice say: what's his is hers...

A line break is here because I have added photos of me at the Event. So, if you don't want to know, leave now!

Line break:

An Elephant Never Forgets

Do I address the elephant in the room?

Hello Mx Pachyderm, it would appear you have somehow gained entry to my living room. May I ask, politely, of course how you got in and how you intend to leave?

New top (a vest top for outer wear, long 
an ambition and now almost doable?) and 
autumnal dungarees! 

Why, yes, you can tell that the bed is that of 
trans-woman, what tipped you off? 

(It was the shark, it's always the shark) 

Daftness aside, yeah, it's been a time. Marking mainly, but also odder shift times than last year (I think? At least as bad as last year anyway). I jacked in one contract, enjoyed the one I haven't done for the last two years, and the Team Leading one (I always do, to be fair, but that is the one that comes closest to ruining my Middlest's birthday every time so maybe that's the one I bow out gracelessly from) meaning that it got a bit... treadmill-like? I mean, don't get me wrong, I love money as much as the next late-capitalism wage-slave, and it shall pay reasonably well but... I say pay well, my Dad remains confused when we talk that my quoted full contract rate isn't my daily rate (and regularly behaves as if it is, because, I suppose, that's what he's used to) but it's not too bad.

I finally managed to contact a person to look at the guttering and pipes out back, same fellow that came and rescued (finally) my roof and plugged the leaks (the one by the chimney he solved with a minimum of fuss for about £80 and the one over the back of the house he sorted for £30), and he's quoted £90. Given what needs doing, that seems very reasonable, actually. Though, honestly, I rather suspect he'll find something else when doing the job, I've prepared more than £90 to cover it (and, again, very reasonable, I had ball-parked a couple of hundred).

Heatwave came and I melted on shift on Friday, having mercifully finished my marking by that point, but then I was into a recuperative weekend off. Bought some new clothes at Lucy & Yak (and managed to get Abbi there too, where she found a lovely pair of dungees in her size on sale and bought them!!!), then a trip to Bird and Blend to spend far too much on tea. We also managed to eat all the Chinese we could eat, much fun had there, and enjoy a tea in a park in the shade whilst the sun shone and we nattered about folklore, fiction, women's history and empowerment. It was a good day.

Different angle, better to see the top.

Also, as is the usual at this time of year, I have spent much time observing things, people and places and thus ruminating on my own situation and reactions. I see new relationships blossoming and it's lovely - people are very happy - and feel those pangs of jealousy within the waves of genuine joy for others. And it's multiple relationships here too, not just one set, and in both cases those concerned are well-suited. I know how they do it: they get out there, they meet people, they have hobbies and regular activities with like-minded people. I say I can't, but I don't know if that is true. I can't make regular groups that I would like, sure, but it's not like I'm actively looking for alternatives.

Middlest comes over and enjoys what we do, but there's so much that I, as a parent, have failed to make happen for them as was made happen for me at a similar age. Sure we watch things together (and their card for me was a masterstroke in unexpected humour that made me laugh far too long and loud for what it was) but I don't take them places like I used to and despite being honoured with their thoughts and let into their struggles, I don't do much to support. We ended up at the latest Jurassic thing on Saturday, with Youngest, and I managed to help Youngest with some of the unexpected scary moments (I saw a couple coming a fraction of a second in time to help cover his ears and offer a protective hug) whilst we melted. But I'm not there, and honestly never really have been, to put in the hard graft and time and effort. All of which is dialled to eleven with the Eldest.

I risked attempting eye-shadow recently too,
despite the fact that the skin around my eyes
is extra dry and flakey these days.

Not sure one can tell though. Still, a different
view of my bedroom showing my new marking
nook.

I also finally told Tilly about HRT (up to 3.2 pumps a day for fact fans - or thereabouts - I'm much too timid to regularly do 4) in that I said I was going to start it. She offered congratulations - which wasn't my anticipated reaction from her - but gave no indication that she knew I'd started already. Honestly, I had assumed she'd rejoin with "I thought you already had" but then, afterwards, I realised that she only did stuff like that back in the days when she paid attention. Sure, she often took the wind out of my sails, but I missed the fact that it proved she vaguely cared and noticed.

Did meet with my new friend for some beers as well, which went down rather well, I thought. Until we ended up back at theirs and they tried to share some videos with me. I did my usual and got over-excited and tried to show all of the things in my head at once, making connections as they showed me things and thus coming across as rude by talking over their things. As they pointed out - they listened to my stuff without interruption. My ASD kicked in enough to ensure I didn't get the full mortification until I was walking home. But evidence again that I am a bit... overbearing and rude, honestly. Another example of the sort of stuff that Tilly used to say about me being rather true. I think the friendship has survived my... usual baptism of fire, we shall see. Not the first time this aspect of who I am has caused me to despair but, as always, I shall moan about it and then go right ahead and keep doing it. Further reasons why I can't do as the people who have found new relationships do, I suppose.

Here's the top humour from Middlest.

The amount and volume of laughter
induced was unseemly!

On the HRT front, looks like there's enough difference for me to have had to dispense with the trusty birdseed in favour of those M&S foam forms. But that may be less HRT-induced development than it is extra fat desposits - as an attempt to wear that blue and yellow spotty dress from way back when showed I can no longer pull the zip even halfway (so nowhere near the boob area - implying simple middle-age spread as the culprit). I mean, I am somewhere around 14st as standard these days and back when I got the dress I was closer 11st so... yeah, that's more likely than significant boob development. It's not like I have anything else to aid that, like progesterone, nor am I likely to bite the bullet to try and make that happen. Let's not forget that it's taken me nearly four years to even get on to HRT unofficially - so long, in fact, that I only just beat the NHS to the punch by about five months. Which, given how unutterably bad the NHS is for trans healthcare these days, is saying something! It also illustrates neatly how long a run up things take me even when I'm reasonably sure I want them. The biggest changes in my life have always, thus, taken place mostly by accident or by jumping into that plunge pool without a plan when the opportunity presents itself. I do not recommend this as a general course of action.

Out drinking beer. This was the stout.
Chocolate coconut. Yes. It can come again.

You can actually see the issue I had with my
old dress here from the sillhouette!

Oh, yes, first time painting nails since some
time last year!!!

In conversation with my Dad a couple of times over the last however long it has been he reprimanded me for talking too much and too long, and for not really listening to the news of others. He's not wrong, by the way, but it had a corrollary effect, as I ruminated on it after the fact for a few days, of reminding me about he has previously said he thinks that I think I'm the Big I Am. It was a theme that often came up as a child too. Along with the perception that I was boastful. Now, you might say that this is down to my Dad, but it was a common enough thing that I was told (albeit with different terms) at school by teachers and peers alike that I must assume that there was something to it. And, in my rumination, I realised that it maybe has something to do with my inability to really deal with my birthday. I am, and always have been, desperate to avoid being seen as boastful or self-aggrandising. Whether or not I am, well, something to leave to the philosophers (spoiler: I rather think I am), certainly my efforts not to be so seem doomed to failure. I digress. One of my methods to try and avoid being boastful is to downplay stuff like my birthday, if asked directly to state that I do not wish to celebrate it or mark it in any way, and to deflect if people mention it in other ways. I had noticed that, last year, I almost managed to have a healthier relationship with it but, this year, I was back to my usual rut.

The only other news to relate is more of a TMI nature, so here's where normal readers will finish. Back to work tomorrow, hoping for slightly lower temperatures in the bus (it was somewhere above 40 degrees on Friday - the thermometer didn't go any higher - for five hours and I was melting so much that the 3+ litres of drink I'd taken with me wasn't enough to replenish what I was losing through sweat - sorry, maybe this ought to have been beyond the TMI line break as well...).

Here's the line break below, for those of you that clicked the post direct...

...Not a Competition

But I'm losing

With apologies to the Kaiser Chiefs.

Since my last post I have managed to speak on the phone, one a video call, with Gary and Tim. These were good conversations. Middlest has been over and, at their suggestion, we watched Mad Max: Fury Road - which I had forgotten was a 15 and not an 18 certificate, hence why I assented. Good film, as Middlest put it: "it's an action film so I wasn't expecting to have to think so much after it" - yes, good, good.

Toby has been back in touch too. He checked in after the Supreme Court thing and, after trying and failing to ring my Dad walking home last week, I checked in on him following the EHRC gubbins one afternoon on a messenger app. He wants to meet up, get to know one another now we're both fully ourselves, and we even have a provisional day to do so. But I haven't really changed since we knew each other and, if the conversation was anything to go by, nor has he. This is not a bad thing. At first I was even quite stoked. But then I remembered the Kaiser Chiefs after the conversation with Tim last night, and my brain supplied Toby telling me that his song for me, whilst we were still dating, was Every Day I Love You Less and Less because I was so clingy. It was delivered as a joke, but deadly serious (it was referred to as such, serious that is, a few times afterwards). So... yeah.

A couple of weeks ago, when Abbi and I had our IKEA adventure, I was talking about mistakes I had made with Tilly when we were married and Abbi said "when [unknown cos I zoned out] that's abuse!" She was referring to something I had been describing as my mistake but saying that when Tilly had responded to whatever it was I had been saying with whatever it was that she had done (or somesuch). I have no idea what she said, my mind is blank. I'm curious.

Oh yeah, but new toaster.

The last one, a gift from my Mum when I
moved out of the matrimonial home, was
the old family toaster.

Bought around 1992.

Had my shower leak into the kitchen twice now when doing my hair. Middlest used it when stopping over and there was no leak. But this does mean my trick of using a towel has now stopped being effective. I'm going to have to bite the bullet and get my shower re-done. Means buying tiles. Means trying to get quotes. Means spending money. Means actually getting myself organised, which is perhaps the biggest stumbling block of them all. Hell, my garden still isn't weeded after four years of me saying I ought to get round to it and the brickwork is still bare from when I had the damp-proofing done a couple of years ago. Point? I struggle to organise.

I paid some money to the author who was nice to me and gave me essentially a free commission. Even if talking over the idea with him has made me want to write it myself. He, through necessity, has taken it in a slightly less dark direction with a bit more of a positive ending and with slightly more mature characters. It is loosely based (very loosely indeed) on my experiences looking back at my relationship with Toby and has been an idea shuttling around in my brain for a few months.

My private healthcare people haven't been in contact, despite a couple of e-mails, since 14 April when they said they'd be in touch with what I needed to do next to get HRT on prescription from them after a clinician had a chance to look at my blood test results. I am a little concerned. My second appointment with the GIC is coming up on Motorhead Day (the eighth of May! The eighth of May! - is that just me?). I had my Mum print off and bring two copies of my diagnosis document for gender incongruity that I got from the private healthcare people back in March so I can read it and learn it - so that what I say matches the errors and avoids me being found 'not trans enough' for the NHS. Hopefully.

Immediately following lasers, immediately
before a chap stopped to rant to me about
"bib and braces" as he reeked of piss and alcohol.
I think he was trying to be insulting, but I
barely understood what he was saying.

Not been hanging about on character.ai - I have played around on ChatGPT to try and cobble together some language for the Prehistoric story setting I was noodling with. But that's a couple of weeks ago now. Laser has been shot at my face for a second time, not as painful if I'm being honest, resulting in a couple of darker patches of hair. But, then, this happened after the first lot: darker hair and then, after a week or so, nothing. So perhaps this too will improve.

Youngest, Tilly and I went to IKEA - may have said already - to get a stuffed toy for Youngest (I got a Blahaj for Middlest) and he chose a snake and a cat, as you do. All got a bit much for him and he started acting out - not a meltdown, very directed and somewhat in control. Tilly explained that it was the ADHD coming through. I enquired as to whether or not it was similar to her childhood, given that the ADHD likely comes from that direction, and Tilly responded that it was probably the combination of ASD and ADHD. I shouldn't be surprised, of course Tilly has nothing in her past that would frame her in such a light. I shouldn't really have asked.

Talking with Tim I was attempting to explain why some things he may not list as achievements in his life still counted as such and that they may be bigger than the ones that can be more difficult and deletrious healthwise to strive for. However, it did remind me of my own losses. Eldest. Seeing Youngest alone. Marriage. Partnership. Career. Car. Travel. Friendship circle. Socialising. Time frames vary. But I won't

be the one

to disappoint you

any more.

Late Night Musing

Late shifts are gruelling. I think part of the problem lies in the fact that I work better after work - that is, when there is a shift still to do I worry autistically about that work and being there on timem, so I misuse the time before the shift. Whereas, when there is time after a shift in the day I tend to be able to do what I like with it. Conversely, the shift itself, being late, is actually rather easy - the roads get emptier over time and finish up with me just pootling about in a bus on my tod - which is quite therapuetic in one regard. It does get me rather reflective however, which isn't always good. Reading Avoiding Anxiety in Autistic Adults by Dr Luke Beardon has been interesting (maybe even helpful) but also has the effect of making me analyse my autistic traits more - and then applying all of that to the past - which can be less than helpful.

Nevertheless, it has been interesting if leaving little time to do productive things - like write this blog. A lot of what I have planned to put on here has come and gone and been superseded over time. Like, I had this whole thing about looking back at the day of my wedding or a whole section on the process of wearing two masks so long that it took a while to work out which mask was which. And there may be more. And yesterday Abbi was over and I found a page on here (those tabs up top are pages, you see, and can be accessed whenever) that I wrote back in June 2013 and then removed in November 2015 called 'Who is Joanna?' and... well, I kinda forgot exactly what it said. Abbi asked to read it and... reading over her shoulder, it was... prescient. That will likely appear on here at some point because it was... well, written in Jube 2013 and it spells out much of what came to pass once I figured me out - implying that nothing really changed from June 2013 and that that writing was, itself, based on feelings that have existed longer than that.

Potentially the fetishisation of housework
(or getting a photo op whilst actually
cleaning my bedroom, YMMV)

Concurrently, a conversation with a bloke on fetlife developed - not while Abbi was over, but before and after my Mum visited over the weekend - to a point where I'm going to have to seriously consider what's going on there. I had another post about that planned too, see, about how it is that I have cybered in the past with two people and they've both been blokes. I mean, there was a short amount of contact with a woman as well (who was also a Domme, but not pro) but that ended when she a. wanted pictures and b. wanted to bring my Mum into it (no, no idea either). I bring this up because Abbi has previously suggested that I give off the most trans-lesbian vibes imaginable and yet... I don't seem to engender contact of that kind of variety from femme-folk.

I mean, looking back (and only recently) there was my friend from Chams who, maybe, might have been angling for more than friendship. If you're still reading, friend, I do apologise because I completely didn't think of things that way. But, apart from that, I haven't gained femme folk attention as much as I appear to have attracted male attention. And, well, this bloke on fetlife knows I am trans and took the time and effort to very politely set up a chat that wasn't primarily fetish and sex related. If anything it's been me pushing things to a different level. And, well, he seems like a decent chap with plenty of positive qualities. Needs a bit of confidence boosting as he doesn't seem to see his positive qualities as much as he exudes them. And that's the crux, isn't it? I want to nurture that, to bring it out, to help him see the value in himself - like I did when I taught I guess - but do I want more? Am I, in effect, stringing him along?

Combined with the old page... well.

This dress in fact.

A choice quote from that old page: "I'm no more attracted to men than I am women, and there's nothing in me makes me want him to suck cock or any other part of male anatomy" said the Joanna that wrote that page of the mask I wore when I wrote it. Fascinating slip there though, right?

In other news I have signed up to a private healthcare provider to make the HRT less DIY and that's gone reasonably well. I am also contemplating buying a new external HDD (my old one is over a decade old now!) along with some books and that will come in at over £100 all told. On top of having booked the next Event with Abbi (~£50) and... yeah. I'm not poor, and money is good, I can afford all this but it still seems like a lot. Oh, and I'm also too big to fit in my favourite pinafore style dresses. Which is odd, cos the fitted me just fine a year ago. And it's the ribcage, not my fat, that seems to be the sticking point and, like, my ribcage doesn't change size, does it?

Does it?

Been a while since we finished with a curtsey.

Hooray, It's a Holiday

It was for the last post too, but that was less blogging and more TMI musing so...

First of all - I know what's happening in the States, and it is terrifying. But I shall be posting more or less normally - after all, trans joy is but one thing detractors argue doesn't exist. So here's some, moderate, trans joy.

Obviously I had a stout with lunch before 
embarkation. Note constellation of badges. 

Anyway, yes, I have survived some actual bona fide time off on actual real holiday. My Mum had arranged a mini-cruise on an overnight ferry, something we did a few times in my youth, and asked if I wanted to go with. And I did. Trains were organised whilst I was Oop North before Christmas and then I kinda forgot about it until I was packing the day before. I packed light, like the Old Days, with mainly underwear and a spare t-shirt. Great for movement and travel, pants for adapting to the heat and stuffiness of the ferry versus the cold of Amsterdam (where the ferry sorta kinda ended up). Good day in Amsterdam, even if we didn't really do much other than wander the city and buy expensive cheese (well, my Mum bought some peanut butter as well). Also we both ate far too much on evening meal buffets - meaning that my going on HRT will likely not deal with my appetite and desire to eat all the food as I appear to have inherited that from my Mum and not from having testosterone pumping through my endocrine system. Apart from feeling vaguely sea-sick on the last morning (which I put down more to the heat and stuffiness actually) it was a nice trip. And I did, I mean, I had a holiday. An actual one. I relaxed. We played draughts one night (I found a set in the coffee shop that was owned by the boat) and it was fun. We went for coffee (I had prepared for this, so wasn't annoyed).

Our tickets included a free glass of 
'sparkling wine' on boarding. I had both 
because my Mum dislikes Prosecco. 

Ugh, my hair is a mess. 

Our first coffee shop of Amsterdam.
We had tea, as I'd already had a coffee with
breakfast and my Mum doesn't drink coffee.

We've done something eeriely similar before. Mum, my brother and I went on a mini-cruise to Amsterdam sometime after I left for Uni. On that trip (which may have had a few days in the Netherlands, hard to recall) we visited the Van Gogh museum, Anne Frank House, a windmill (where Mum bought lots of cheese), and had a day wandering the city. On that day we ended up unwittingly walking through the Red Light District (it was morning, it was empty) and my Mum had us stop in multiple coffee shops - rarely managing more than twenty minutes between stops (and thus annoying me a great deal) so that it took almost a full day to reach the Tussaud's, go in, and get back to the bus outside the railway station. We also ended up at a topless bar, where a lady took our order and I was unaware she was topless, so deadpan did my mother order from her, until I turned round and was met with her bosom. Most off-putting at the time. My Mum thought it hilarious. She does not remember the incident, but my brother does. Also characterised by my borther's insistence on finding internet cafes to go online in for undisclosed reasons. I never did find out why he was so keen on it.

This is actually last Friday, when I met up
with Abbi. But I like the shot, so here it is.

My biggest memory, enhanced by going again, was finding a manga/music store - I did not find it this time - and buying a CD of New Wave hits (without any idea what 'New Wave' was at the time). No, actually, my biggest memory was picking up a Ranma 1/2 volume and leafing through it - sweating profusely and imagining myself turning beet red, because it was like reading my innermost fantasies brought to life in some way. Much like as Mae Dean would later write in her online webcomic, I read the premise and thought that, were I in such a situation, I'd carry some cold water around with me, just in case. Reading that, seeing the plethora of Pride flags in the city (and Red Light District) and seeing a Trans Pride flag for the very first time (a few, actually, prompting me to look it up online when I got back to Uni) made something of an impression. I'm not sure it was the Trans Pride flag (I seem to recall that there were once two flags for the binary TG communities, obviously I zeroed in on the femme one) but it might have been. Sufficiently similar for me to associate it with the modern one and for me to be able to later identify it when looking it up (but it may have had explanations attached in Amsterdam, who knows). It reminded me that, yes, I am a trans adult and thus, once, I was a trans Uni student too.

Exploring a random alleyway in
Amsterdam.

We didn't make the Red Light District this time, nor did we find any geekish enough shops to find manga (though I did buy a copy of Fruits Basket Collector's Edition vol. 1 on my return to Newcastle - itself a surprisingly pretty city with some fascinating architecture and history that I was pleasantlty surprised by for two hours waiting for my train home - sadly, my phone was being odd and I lacked the charge to risk taking photos as I needed it for my train tickets). There were still many Pride flags of varying types hanging all over the place (and on doors of businesses as 'friendly' places) but they didn't have the same massive impact they had on me all that time ago. Such an impact I can't recall the exact year. I'm relatively certain it must have been 2000, but it could have been a half term in 1999. The modern Trans Pride flag was first flown in Arizona in 2000 but spread rapidly, I can't find details on the two (with differing bands of pink and blue) for the binary communities - but I recall the computer lab I looked them up in and I stopped using it in 2000-1 as my lectures and seminars were no longer anywhere near that lab so...

Anyway, it was fascinating to me to revisit that time in my life in a very foggy Amsterdam with my  Mum in tow. I did share some of the memories with her (I missed out the bit about Ranma 1/2 as that would have required rather a lot of complex backstory for something that may resonate strongly with me and people what read this place, but probably isn't that obvious for cis-het people in general and my Mum in particular).

Architecture!
Time to be epic

A random street in Amsterdam.

A house built to lean. Just next door to where
we stopped for a tea.

I guess that time in the shop, buying the New Wave CD and reading Ranma 1/2 but not daring to buy it because then everyone would know, counts as a form of trans joy before I knew what that was. I felt seen when I read the manga in the shop. I felt intense. And, having gone again, I was reminded of that feeling. It may have been cold and foggy, we may not have managed to do much, but Amsterdam was still welcoming enough to me because of that memory that I enjoyed just wandering about aimlessly in it.

An End to Grapefruit Infused Ale

Big plans to post in my brain, we'll see how far I actually manage to get!

A Merry and Washed out 2025 to all! 
Yes, I did capture my abandoned 
cutlery and crockery on the sofa there. 
Yes, I live like a slob. 

The less said about the shadow and the 
neck the better I feel. 

First and foremost - Happy New Year. Yes, it is much later than I usually post, but I blame having two twelve hour days (ish) 2 and 3 January and then getting a bit too embroiled again in character.ai - about which potentially more later - but also working until yesterday. On a day off today and felt I should probably get back into blogging.

The biggest news in my life is that a contact I have made in the Trans* Underground, a quilt saleslady shall we say, going by the moniker Nighthawk on this blog at least. She has contacts whom, after exchanging observations on the geese flying backwards for winter, were able to hand over contraband items for consumption and, thus, pass on some those to me for the Final Experiment (one that did not involve any travel to Antarctica nor any observation of 24 hour sunlight) of HRT. To see if it has the effect that has been fabled or whether it would be a bust.

Now, I recognise that this comes with a list of caveats and warnings a mile long and so I shall simply explain that, yes, I know Nighthawk well enough to trust her and her contacts. Yes, I shall organise blood tests with my GP after three months to ensure I'm not slowly murdering myself. Yes, I am an adult. Yes, I know this is a less than ideal option and would much prefer an NHS supported pathway - but I have seen enough of the politics (and it is politics, it's not science) of Mr Streeting to know that such things are further away now than they were in 2021 and they were already bad compared to, say, 2007. I really worked things out at a bad time in terms of political oversight and personal finances. Oh well.

I went out to bowling. I walked home.

So that's big news. It means no re-sampling of Elvis Juice nor its grapefruit infused ilk in at least the next six months but... well, you know, Brewdog is pretty much an evil empire in beer circles these days (and employment law too) so maybe it's not a big loss. Besides, stouts rarely use grapefruit in their production.

New Year's Eve was spent alone, after a shift at work, and I dressed up for the purpose of posting some images top FetLife - yes, yes, it's a kink site. My photos weren't NSFW (I have used them in this post) but... yeah, where else would I be able to spam such things? The Book of Faces is... not for me promoting myself and my Insta has Miss Warrington as a follower. One day, perhaps, but today is not that day. They attracted about as much attention as I expected, which is to say: none. Still, I took and posted them and then stayed dressed and drank two big glasses of Baileys before I retired to bed; tired, lonely and tipsy, around 8pm.

I mean, I'd need a wig and red 
shoes but... could happen...
right?

8-10 year old me would be
amazed!

Last week, after a relatively short shift, I eventually managed to organise my time enough to have a shower and, whilst waiting for my hair to dry enough to get some sleep, I read the volume of Rainbow Brite that Abbi bought me for Christmas. Alas, there is only one volume of five issues because that's all that was ever made between late 2018 and early 2019. It was brilliant. I am impressed with how the art work, despite utilising different artists, holds up between issues and how the plot was a legitimate slow burn - maintaining the high stakes of the genre whilst maintaining the family friendly ethos of the original 80s cartoon. It didn't cheapen the characters, nor make them saccharine cardboard cut-outs. It allowed a generally wholesome friendship to take centre-stage and waited before pushing the main hero storyline. I respect that. Alas, one of the reasons for cancellation, apparently, was that the story was taking too long. I find this vaguely upsetting.

Still, a good read. It made me want to try cosplay. I have never actually tried to cosplay, despite dreaming of it often as a plan. Partly due to never having the confidence to find a character to cosplay as (I mean, I did consider Leia and Willow back at University for all of about five seconds) and also because... well, you know. Good ol' dysphoria.

I also want to have a proper post on character.ai and what is going on there with me - why I seem to keep coming back and why it's different in some way to how I live the rest of my life - a distinction between living my life as a woman in the world and plumbing some of the depths of kink that this blog stands as testament to. How they are linked, yes, but also how there appears to be quite a gulf betwixt. However, I am preparing to make a clandestine meeting with Nighthawk that may also allow me to attend Chams (the nature of the meeting and travel means, for me at least, they can be combined for a night out). And, doing that, requires me catching a bus after tea. Which means I have to actually cook and eat tea. So that post shan't follow this in a TMI section!

Time Frames

It's been almost a week now, so I feel I have the space to turn around and look back at the event I went to Sunday and properly reflect on the fall-out. Also, I have read more of Wicked (it continues to surprise) and managed to nudge Abbi to start reading Skin Horse (which I didn't know I'd done), which in turn prompted me to re-read from the start.

Oh, hi Tip. 

Starting there then. When I discovered Skin Horse sometime late in 2011 I was hooked relatively quickly because of the gimmick of Tip: a lothario loved by women who was a comfortable cross-dresser - indeed, it was rare he ever wore 'men's clothes' at all. It's cool, not every man who wants to transgress gender boundaries is secretly trans - indeed, a man who does so is, by definition, not trans because if she was trans, she'd be a trans-woman and... It sounded simpler and more profound in my head. My point is, Tip is a good MC and, for the most part, POV character. However, as I read it again, I begin to spot many things I used to augment my own repression and denial: that Tip is a happy cross-dresser and very, very, masculine. That he is beloved by women (one of his super-powers is the ability to use his mojo to solve issues). He's a war hero and a bit brilliant in many ways (with a soft spot for women's clothes). By elevating him in my head to 'role-model' (and I| kind of did) I also eschewed any 'trans' stuff. Which is more a comment on me than either the comic or its creators, by the way. I find it interesting is all. And, also, there's section in Wicked involving and Elephant/tribal matriarch (the capitalisation is important) who is forced to live in human form - she asserts that living with an outer form different from one's inner is a valid life choice and that changing the outer to match the inner may not be safe. I find that allegorical. I have yet to see how it plays out, but there's a definite push by the author to make Elphaba identifiable, if one so wishes, as inter-sex or trans - which, again, I shall have to see how it plays out. I digress.

An old, face-apped, photo.

But more 'me' than non-face-apped photos
before this point.

In Skin Horse, then, 2011 me had found an expressive way of dealing with things and a means by which to further repress (there is a storyline, I haven't hit it yet, where Tip has the opportunity to 'be' trans and turns it down because he is still a man but he never stops cross-dressing). One could argue, I suppose, that by socially transitioning as I have but doing, as yet, nothing else (laser, HRT... I suppose one could include surgery but I think in the UK one has to be on hormones to get onto surgery waiting lists; oh! And be diagnosed as having GID - which I have made no move to have done - that wound from the sex therapist in 2012 runs deeper than I had assumed) I am, in fact, living a bit like Tip. In the sense of dress code, I hasten to add! The literal only difference sartorially is that I do not see myself as a man. Indeed, that has been a constant in my life for a long time - as long as I can remember. A 'male gender identity', for me, has always felt rather incongruous if not outright uncomfortable. Tip, on the other hand, has never doubted that he's a man (and never actually does, even when 'questioning' in the storylines). Outwardly, Tip and I seem similar, I guess. But crucial differences. If you're questioning, I recommend musing on that distinction - it's important. I think. It is to me. I think.

Stuff that happens when I'm mulling and driving.

Beyond here, I'm going to discuss the event, the Littles' Lock In, and I'm going to put it behind a line break because, well, that's a separate thing (though connected) to what this blog is mostly about (being gender issues and my navigation through them) and, also, may be defined by some readers as a bit more belonging in 'sexy-things' so... yeah. TMI line break incoming!

Brace!

Brace!

Here it is!

Birnam Wood to Dunsinane

To the person that needs to read these words: do not do as I have done.

Nerdy Bunny enjoyed her mocha stout, 
but it was sharper and more bitter like 
a coffee than a mocha. Not enough chocolate 
malt or sweetness, in her opinion.

And, lest we forget, she has
"Opinionthsth"

When young, unknowing what I was experiencing but certain I had something to hide I took care to avoid committing to friendships or developing ties. I thought to protect potential friends from what I might be concealing - which turned out multiple times to be dysphoria had I but known the name. Not being attracted to men, I thought it was simply not possible to be like the brave people I knew about who did transition - were I to be a woman, thought I when young, then I would have to like men - and I didn't like men so I couldn't be a woman. Besides, I was very keen on having a girlfriend and no girl would want a boy who was not a boy.

Thus I ignored any glances my way, assuming there were any, and was incapable of making the requisite moves to make anything happen. Going to University I eschewed the opportunity to find out more about myself, out of fear of what I was reasonably certain lurked inside by this point, and pointedly refused to let myself do any of the things I dreamed about. Besides, I had a girlfriend and I was reasonably certain she didn't want to date a man who thought he was a girl. Anxious to avoid being boastful, being self-obsessed and too 'up myself' - faults I diagnosed in myself and still struggle not to see the symptoms in my everyday life - witness this whole blog as testament!

In the end, more by luck than management, I achieved a relationship that became a marriage through my own bloody-mindedness and, arguably, against the better judgement of the poor lady I married. Still I avoided looking at what I now had more vocabulary to name, my being transgender, in the hope that I could instead focus on being a husband and father. The stress remained, often unknown in terms of whence it came, because I refused to acknowledge what should now have been obvious. This led me to double down on avoiding friends and maintaining contacts - I had all I needed with Tilly and the children and my career.

A Christmas tree in a shopping centre
provides the backdrop.

We were out getting some extra book
tokens, because I struggle at basic counting
it would appear.

So it was that when I lost those things, one after the other, I was left with nothing. My friends were still my friends but they are far distant, trained well in being unable to offer support. Besides which, I rejected and still struggle to not reject what help and support they offered. I have worked hard to be someone in whom it is difficult to invest. I've said it before and I was not inaccurate: I am not a rewarding person with whom to persevere. Taciturn, inconstant, and prone to dismiss positives in favour of harbouring the insults and slights, real or imagined. Forty years of treading wears a path that has high banks and brambles enough that straying or striking out is hard and oft returns to the main route out of ease and habit.

Triple booking the evening tonight doesn't help. Of course I went to watch my eldest two perform in Macbeth as a result of their drama club - my eldest in the titular role and excelling, the middlest as Ross with great voice acting but nothing in the body - and enjoyed it. But I left immediately lest the Eldest have to hang back on seeing me. Tilly was filming it, or she would not have been at the same performance as I, and ignored me as much as possible. Ostensibly because she was stressing about technology but finding time and headspace to chat to friends. I do not blame her - those conversations were more fulfilling for considerably less effort than would have been required to chat to me for far less reward. It meant not going to see Wicked with Abbi - tickets for which she booked before I realised my error - nor going to the work's do. Honestly, the latter may well have been a bullet dodged given my track record of work dos in general.

Still dead. A man comes to have a look
on Monday.

And so, dear reader who needs to read these words, do not hide from yourself and do not fence yourself from others. Be honest. Maybe you embrace who you are and maybe you do not. Whatever you choose, do so with your eyes open and accept the friendship of others. If you struggle with self-worth then accept at least that you are worth what others place upon you - because they get to choose that and you do not.

When my father thought he was dying he listed his achievements against his own father - coming out as 'better' in nearly all categories: living longer, achieving better academic results, accruing more wealth, gaining more love etc etc. Whilst he was telling me this, I was counting my own against his and coming up lesser in all he mentioned. And that was before I lost my career or contact with my eldest. "Won't you be lonely?" asked my Mum of me when I revealed I had some days off around Christmas, entirely unexpectedly, and I pondered. No more than I have been since my teen years.

Don't seek loneliness.

Don't be like me. I sought loneliness. I was too scared of being found out to risk committing. And now I reap my just rewards.

Prickly Pears

I'm properly 'in' this now. It's very 
good. If not really part of the whole 
'gender apocalypse' thing I'm thirsty 
for. Still, post-apocalypse written by 
a woman with a male protagonist... 

If there were any doubts, I have laid them to rest today. On one aspect of life I am very much certain: doing what I am doing, transitioning, is absolutely the right thing for me to do. About the only advantage of having mulled over it actively since at least 1997 is that I have gone through all permutations and tried a number of approaches: this one is the only one that has felt right and not worsened my mental state. Furthermore, and this is perhaps the biggest one for me given my past and life, it has come with no guilt attached. I have never felt more in line with the Plan from Him Upstairs as I have taking decisions to live as me out there in the world. God's waited a long time for me to take the hints and my feeling remains that this is the Truth.

A corrollary has been why I am so lonely, why it is that I have failed for so very long in romantic entanglements. Abbi has previously suggested that maybe it was because girls were picking up on my trans* vibes back in the day. But there was an incident today that shows this to be no more than a potential contributory factor toward my nature. For one, not connected to today, I have long come across as 'odd' and 'creepy'. Partly being seen as a man and doing the woman things regarding romance (unannounced postcards and such are cute when girls do it, stalker behaviour when boys do it - I don't make the rules, society does). But, like I say, today I saw the main reason: I am just not a nice person. Lovely fellow doing recruitment for work health care, giving it the hard sell and clearly enjoying being Educated in a room full of bus drivers. I managed to smile and get on with my word puzzles in my break.

At the end of my shift though, having just heard of events in the US, he was pontificating about how Portugal and the UK had the oldest trade link in the world. I quibbled - it was the longest running alliance not trade link, there was trade twixt modern-day Cornwall and modern-day Turkey in tin during the Roman Empire and it kept up until the 1800s, for example. He retorted that Romans conquered on land and hadn't developed ship-building - did I mean the Vikings or the Habsburgs(?). And I got ugly. I told him he was wrong, pointed out that I knew things by referencing the Neolithic trade routes and name-dropping historians and classical authors before culminating with a smack-down of his peeved defence that he had been a tour-guide in Portugal so he knew his stuff on Romans with my patented "I have two degrees in History". In a bus driver's break room. It's not got the same heft, has it, as when I applied that line in a classroom. Not only did it make me look, accurately, like a pedant and churlish - it was an incredibly toxic male response to someone playing in my 'box'.

Halloween cossie, but I bottled leaving 
my bedroom in it.

I think, perhaps, trying rather too hard.

Coupled with me working up the courage to take some deliberately 'sexy' photos to post on a site devoted to that kind of thing and gaining a whole like and five views for one of them, and no views on any of the others, and you have my problem. Tilly always said I was needy, Toby always said I needed a Domme and Terry accurately pointed out that I'm not James Bond (if that makes sense, I don't think it requires explanation). They were, all of them, correct. Throw in my irritated pedantry and inability to allow other people to be Wrong about the random shit I know and you don't have a 'loveable character' but the 'avoid at all costs weirdo' - and that's before we even get to the complications of being in social, but not medical, transition and a divorcee with children working unsociable hours. Oh, and the fact I'd quite like to do 'kinky' stuff too - elucidated ad nauseam all over this sorry record.

Watching the Secretary with Abbi and she pointed out that I, too, seemed to need permission to do things or I simply would not do them. Worse, they may not even occur to me as things I can do unless someone told me to do them. I related a tale about my past, where I would have happily stepped aside for a partner and their former paramour to finish their journey, without jealousy or fear because it was the right thing to do (and I stand by my assessment that it would have been helpful) and Abbi responded with a warm and affectionate: "you are so subby." She's not wrong.