Thursday, 24th March, 2005

I Miss Green

On the train over to Manchester yesterday afternoon, I couldn't help but notice all the trees with buds on them — especially the ones with catkins on them. There was a hint of Spring in the air — sunshine, warmth, the beginings of leaves — and as I pulled into Deansgate, there was a flash of green as we passed a bank of hawthorn bushes.

This winter seems to have gone on for ever — I can't wait for Spring

And then, this evenning, on my way home, I got to thinking ... isn't it odd that Spring is the only season to have a special verb? Spring has sprung.

Does Summer summerise? Does Autumn Autumnate? Does Winter wanter?

...

Hmm That seemed a lot funnier in my head.

Inflate My Ego

Last night was great I always have fun when I go out in the Village with Natalie — but last night seemed to be a lot more chilled than usual. Maybe it was something to do with the atmosphere in the new downstairs bit at Napoleons

So, in true trannie-stylee, I was wearing: stripey jeans, black boots and a black shirt. I didn't go with the bunches — I just had a pony tail.

Several things about the evening stand out — feeling old while staring at the young trannie in black, loving the relaxed atmosphere, feeling calm and at one with myself, and feeling chuffed at getting recognised

That's twice in a week now If this keeps happening then I'll get unbearable

Ack, I can't take pictures in the Village! Getting your camera out in Naps is such a newbie thing I'm a serious professional girl these days with an image to uphold, ya know?

I might have to doll myself up again like that though — it was kinda a really cute outfit

Dear God — what is this obsession with pictures?!

I. Looked. Cute.

Now go use your imagination.

I did not, however, look as cute as the girl in black. So I hate her. Natch.

Dull and Lifeless

There are so many things right now that I wish I could verbalise — but for once, I'm speechless.

It was an odd experience today, sitting in the middle of Manchester, sun streaming across my face, munching on a duck sandwich (yum), glowing from the aftermath of a night dressed in the Village, realising that the world is a beautiful place, and feeling nothing.

I went to see the doctor the other day, who, in between drawing pretty picture of the synapses between my brain cells and using little dots to represent my distinct lack of seratonin, used the anology of a plaster cast to explain what the prozac is doing for me at the moment.

It stops me feeling bad — but at the same time, stops me feeling good.

What I'm doing at the moment, if it wasn't obvious to all and sundry, is going for quick hits of pleasure. That's why I've been out quite so much recently. I need things that give me quick shots of happiness — short term boosts of enjoyment.

I'm not, as was expressed as a concern to me earlier, putting all my eggs in one basket and using my transvestism as a one-stop-shop for a fix to how I feel right now — I'm using it at therapy.

For what it's worth, the drugs are starting to work. I can feel myself becoming detached from everything. Which is what I need just at the moment.

There will, I'm sure, come a point when I don't want to be detached — a point when I'm ready to re-engage.

But it's not yet.

Give me a few months of self indulgent morbidness. I think I deserve that. It's been said to me a few times over the past few weeks that whatever is happening, I'm going to come out of it a changed person — the last time it happened, I came out of it calling myself Siobhan.

Fuck knows what happens this time.