I’m transitioning. The only words I’m interested in saying to anyone right now are 1. Fuck and 2. Off, and preferably in such sequence. Don’t talk to me about it. Don’t look at me.

Fucking faggot at the bar last night, (first dick I ever took a couple years back) wanted to make sure I wasn’t doing it because “other people want” me too. I said, “Listen man, I don’t think anybody wants me to do this.” Which obviously isn’t totally true, but what I wanted to say was “How about you run a dull knife down the top middle of your shaft and split that shit open like a fucking banana split, you dumb fairy.”

Increasing feelings of disenfranchisement and indignation, paired with the sense that I’ve been decidedly tricked and fucked by God. I don’t want to fucking hear it.

“You’re being irrational.” If you think pragmatism is the solution to the majority of the problems facing our first world, nazi, technocrat media hell, as someone who has no money or clout points, maybe you should entertain the thought of talking to a trans person sometime. We are faced with an unprecedented unique set of intersecting problems that do not present us with a logical series of steps to solve. Be a grown up. Think before you tell me how I should and shouldn’t speak.

Transitioning is supposed to be a thing I do to make myself feel better, but a surprising amount of people infer through select phrasing and unbeknownst rhetoric that I am doing this to look like a girl for the gaze of others or to earn pity/concern/social points, these progressives convey this and worse; that even if other trans people are actually real, I am probably not one of them. And I supposed this is my Welcome To The Club moment, and now I understand why many Dolls are so mean to everyone.

I have a good job, lots of friends, a Substack with enough consistent readers to fill a small music venue, a thriving Instagram Story community, good relationship with my parents, living in a big house (in the garage, but it’s the perfect garage for me.) I’m obscenely talented when I try, and I get bitches on occasion. I can’t complain.

But my wrath persists. And for a few good reasons.

I am ideologically transgender. I’ve never been interested in fashion, because that means I’m bending down asking the world “do you like it? do you? plz tell me you like it… i worked rlly hard on this fit…” It’s just pathetic to me. I dress like a normal hipster performative male because if I don’t I’m pretty sure everyone will want to kill me and I, myself. Do I want to look good and girly? Of course, but there’s not really a way to do that for me that doesn’t make me feel like a dumbass. It certainly doesn’t help that not a single soul in my circle is forgiving about stylistic missteps. Fuck you if you give a shit what I wear. I don’t. I just want to look normal and blend in. Contrary to common mythos, Daisy is more often than not, uninterested in attention mongering. I’m interested in my career and fucking bitches. That’s basically all. Everything else is like whatever. Fuck Gina.

I’m doing a fucking show March 21st. Performance art. You wouldn’t get. But nobody’s gonna show up and I’m just gonna K-hole.

Writing a book and that’s honestly the only thing I care about right now. I’ll talk more about it when I have more of it written.

People who write like this do not fare well with the publishing industry. But I’ve read their books, and I like them more than all that “Atomic Habits,” and fucking Prince Harry autobiography. That shit was so hilarious. He dressed up like Hitler once for a costume party and got cancelled and then cried about it in his book.

I have no hope for anything good to ever happen to me in any notable way. As in, I don’t anticipate accomplishing anything that would be mentioned at my funeral.

Only still alive because of Revenge. Revenge against whom, I will not say, but I can assure you, reader, that they are probably not who you would expect.

The next person to call me buddy is going to suffer a pelvic fracture.

Need me some cocaine and some naked alone time with a big ass piano. Fuck this city.

If I wasn’t a writer, I would be a more formidable person. Would take less shit.

People know they can get away with the way they speak to me because they know I’m on the bottom rung of social value, and I’m not pretty enough to respect in any serious way, but not ugly enough to ignore entirely.

This is what happens when I don’t drink for more than one day. I’ve been doing a good job at drinking less, but this is made possible only because of my drive for Revenge.

Fucking retards.

Everything I ever learned growing up was a lie. One of which was the notion that a person usually has a purpose or a “point” to them.