Ok so I figured I'd start out by jumping right into my pool of angry venting and oblivious flailing. Sort of like a seagull who just witnessed some scumbag stealing "his" crumb. You ever watched a seagull in a McDonalds parking lot, when someone throws a french fry and some other gull grabs it? He's all "AAAAAH!!! YOU SCUMBAGGGG!! I SAW DAT FIRST, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! YOU-oh, hey, that hooman has another one!?"

That's how I imagine it anyway.

Well let's start off with today, and I'll backtrack into my sea of awesome, like a backstroke, to the good parts.

Start with the bad, go to the good. So we leave on a good note, and not the bad. It's opposite day.

Just go with it.

So I get up sort of late today, not like super late but enough for me to actually put some pants on instead of wandering around in my boxers for half an hour.

I get up, get dressed, not even attempt to do something with my hair. It's going in a hat anyway, who cares? Not this guy.

So I get my shizz (backpack full of notebooks I know I'll have no time for but I bring them anyway) and throw on my boots, and head out to my already-breaking Jeep. I call it my Heep. Heepa-jeep.

It's official name is Demon. Cuz its red. And reasons.

ANYWAY. Jump in, start it up, and the usual check engine light is on. I dont panic. There is no panicing involved since it's been on for about a month now, because I have a hole in my Kat that needs to be welded plus the fact that my muffler is rusted out which matters NOT because my whole damn exhaust system is basically unattached.

Poor person problems.

Anyway, I'm driving along with my radio blasting as usual and DIIIING.

Not like a little "hey, hows it goin, check this out" sort of noise but more like a "HEY!!! DUDE!!! DUDE!! YOU SEEING THIS!? ARE YOU F***ING SEEING THIS!?"

To which I reply "Ah, crap."

My EBS or Electronic Braking System, as decided it needs attention. It wants service.

To which I reply "Too damn bad, bish, I'm going to work!"

So I ignore it.

Then I look down, and notice my car is overheating.

Oh, fun. Blast the heater, roll down the windows, and enjoy the 50F weather with my heat on. No problem. Okay, so since I'm ignoring it so far, my jeep decides to amp up the annoyance.

"Oh, I'm an automatic? Haha, funny. YOU shift, I'm done."

Yup. No shifting. Had to do it myself. THEN, THEN (Nope, not done yet) I stop somewhere to let it cool and give me a break, and it decides "I dont want to keep going! You're on your own, buddy!"

and doesnt want to start. My reply, naturally was "YOU HEAP! DO IIIIIIIIT."

And it did it. Because I'm a human. And I think I'm the boss. But dont tell me I'm not even though it's obvious that my car rules my life. Damn it......

Basically to fix all the shinanigans (which decided to magically disappear once I told my boyfriend who traded vehicles for the night so he could work on the jeep. Thanks Demon) it's gonna cost me about 200 monkey moolahs which we all know is like 2000 real money.

Thanks. Thats....wonderful. Thank you, I needed that boot in the butt.

BUT, YOU WAITED. YOU READ. YOU LISTENED. You may or may not have been sympathetic, and if you were I thank you, if you werent then get lost;

But here's the good news.

You ready? Yeah? Nope, gonna stall.

So I went to see my doc, and we talked about the cutting thing and the medications (which she decided to change to a different brand, Zololf, which I so far love) and all that blahness. And I explained to her that my back is still in pain from my obviously huge bust.

I have to sleep upright, I cannot lay on my back or stomach because it hinders my breathing, and to my absolute horror; I went up a bra size. Yay me.

So she said she would talk to someone and not to worry about it.

So I get a call about a referral. No big deal, we'd been talking about getting me a new therapist anyway.

Call them back....."I'm sorry but I'm just not seeing a referral to here....Are you sure it were for a therapist?" they ask me. To which I reply "I have no freaking clue. You called me, I'm calling you, it's a party."

So they search around and ask a few departments (huge hospital, lots of chaos) and then she goes "Oh, you've called the wrong department". I'm assuming maybe financial aid, the padded rooms, maybe a straight jacket factory......nope. Better.

And there's not much better than a soft, comfy, private padded room.

"You're looking for the Plastic Surgeon. This referral is to Doctor Shin, the plastic surgeon."

Oh. My. God.

No.

Nope, I need pinches. Someone pinch me.

So naturally I bawl like a bitc*.

They transfer me, we talk, and yup. You got it.

My Official First Consultation with a Plastic Surgeon concerning FTM Transgender Top Surgery is coming to my nearest hospital on May 6th of this year.

IT'S ON, LADIES AND GENTS.

OHHHHH IT. IS. ON.

No words.

I'm done.

I dont think I need to explain for you to understand my emotions.

I think I'm gonna go die now.

In a good way.

TOOTLES!

Oh and I love you all.

Just as a footnote.

LATERS,

Warren