Chickenness, My Attractive Parts, and Thanks

The Fiery One and I have both signed up for NaNoWriMo, and he found a profile the NaNoWriMo site for our friend, Starcat.

Fiery One: I... put [Starcat] on my friend list [on the NaNoWriMo site] as well.

Schmutzie: That's from an old sign-up from 2004. He says that he's not going to do it officially through the site this year. I think he's chicken.

Fiery One: Yeah, big chicken. He needs a chicken-outing.

Fiery One: By which I mean that his chickenness needs to be brought out.

Schmutzie: Which makes no sense. What are saying should happen?

Fiery One: When hidden or occluded, chickenness - which is to say to the state of being chicken, which refers to feelings of fear and cowardice - is permitted to continue to ramify or reticulate, to insinuate itself in a rhizomal fashion into the consciousness of the enchickened one, then a deleterious effect on one's resolve is promoted, and therefore such chickenness should not be permitted to hide, but should be exposed via accusatory emails and a dialogue that overturns, as the trowel overturns clods of earth, the many occlusionary rationalizations for said enchickenment, until all rationalizations have been removed and nothing is left but the raw quivering enchickenment, which vanishes upon exposure.

Tell him he's a big chicken. He will respond with a long series of reasons for his actions. Respond to these reasons by telling him he's a big chicken. Eventually he'll own up to it.

At which point, I began laughing long and loud in my cubicle at work. How am I to respond to such a reply? Naturally, because I was eating potato chips and had a mouth full of deconstituted

* potato goo, I forced some of it up into my nasal passage in response. Such is my wit.

* I have chosen to create a new word, deconstitute. I figure that potato chips, expecially of the Pr!ngles variety, are basically reconstituted potatoes, and that when they are broken down from their reconstituted state, they have become deconstituted. The synonym/antonym site had nothing. If anyone knows of an antonym for reconstitute, give me a shout, because I feel weird about creating deconstitute, like I am creating a golum. and by typing it out and defining it, I am metaphorically placing the word emeth on its forehead.

Blackbird has brought it to my attention that I am negative more often than not when I write about my appearance. She is spot on. I am. My feelings about this sharing of my negative body issues are conflicted, and on more than one occasion I have considered weeding the entries about them out of this website.

Like a great number of other people, I have never been at ease in this body of mine. (That sentence makes it sound like a great number of other people have tried on my body and felt ill at ease in it, which is not my intent. A great number of people are not at ease in their own bodies, not mine). My discomfort has always been compounded, though, by my gender dysphoria. My flesh has always felt innately wrong to me. It belies my true nature. As a result, I have kind of detached my sense of self from my body, which makes it feel more like a bad suit I can't take off.

My relationship with my body is getting better, though. If you have spent a great deal of time reading this site, you will no doubt envision me as an overweight, hirsute, pock-marked quarterback with an overbite and coke bottle glasses. Of course, this is not so. In certain light, I am sure that I am quite attractive. As proof of the fact that I do not hold the appearance of my body with complete disdain, here is a list of things I like about it:

I love my eyebrows. They have remained a deep chestnut colour and define the shape of my face perfectly.

My shapely ankles are neither too thin nor too thick and look awesome atop a pair of high heels. (This only happens once every two years or so, but it's true nonetheless).

My earlobes please me.

My hands are small. They are not delicate or stocky, and look both practical and creative. They look like the kind of hands that make things, and they do.

I am not a fan of most women's knees, but mine are pretty nice. They're not thick, but they're not knobbly, either.

And here's some extra proof that, if not my face, at least the rest of me is far from actually being a hideous monstrosity (if you can tell through the blurriness and despite the angle of my head):

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By the way, to all those who wrote me comments and e-mails about how to counteract my early thirties broken out skin issues, thank you. I have already taken some steps to help alleviate my problem: I've changed my pillowcases (I really do that anyway, but I did it sooner than usual), I have vowed never to attack my face with a-buck-a-bar soap ever again, I have drastically cut down on obsessively picking at my blackheads, I disinfected my tweezers, and I am giving Cet@phil a try, because Saviabella was kind enough to offer a bottle of it up for the cause yesterday. I have only washed my face with the stuff twice, and already the skin on my face feels surprisingly like skin and less like greased parchment paper. I will keep you posted about my progress, because my acne is that important.

It's Kind Of Like Looking At That Book About Cats That Paint, Only Different