“You are just uncomfortable with your body.” She said as if her words could solve all my problems. As if my dysfunctions could be solved by her petty words of wisdom.

“You’re going be in that body for the rest of your life, lady. You have to learn to love it girl.” She says. As if my imagined self-loathing could be cured by a campy nineties feel good seminar created by femi-nazis to create militaristic men hating clones. Like a lobbyist levying her private greed as my public need she says, “Who would want to be a boy anyway?”

Her tone is condescending and cold, she’s a killer queen. She knows all without doubt. Men are miscreants. Boys are bothersome. Transgendered people got too confused playing dress up.

“But, I am not a girl.” I interject. My voice is small, meek, more of a grumble in gravelly whisper than an actual voice.

“Well, you certainly aren’t a boy.” Like she knows me better than I know myself. Like she’s the world’s foremost expert on Gender. As if she knows all future advances in medical science. As if she knows everything. Her words echo across my mind and against every grain in my body like sand paper on glass.

“How do you know?” I say louder. I’m confident now and angry.

“Oh I know.” With a haughty confidence. She is stubborn arrogance that knows no bounds. She is society, and I am just a confused silly little man.