luxemburger

Hi birls! I am just updating everyone with my life. I am doing wonderful! I am in a relationship with a beautiful trans woman and I couldn't be any happier. We are attending Transfamily in Lakewood,Ohio this weekend if anyone is from around there. I hope you are all well :)

I don't even remember the last time I posted.

( it sure has been awhile )

The name is Quin. Though not legally I did attempt and the court just decided not to do it.
I'm 23, which I have a hard time being thrilled about. No longer considered a youth and feeling like I'm headed nowhere. Should have just gone to school all those years ago.
In my free time I crochet, spending it with my fiancee doing whatever we please. Always hunting out free stuff to do. Barely spend time at home if I can help it.
You are free to use whatever pronoun you wish. I'm rather open to whatever.
I don't know. What do you want to know?

  

HOW DOES ALL OF THIS HAPPEN WHILE I'M SLEEPING? First Skins 'trailer!!!


And:

( KATIEEEEEEEEEEE )

Can we please discuss ALL OF THE SHIT that went down in that trailer? OMG OMG. (Just the trailer speculation, though. If you know actual spoilers, I don't want to know. LOLL)

( Few more caps... )


( I love all of Skins. I'm still not sure how THIS became the most exciting thing for me... )

Phil here. I gots a question for y'alls.

Sooooooo I'm a senior in high school and getting ready to start this whole college OMGIMGOINGTOSHOOTMYSELFOHGODWHY kinda stuff, and in that category is filing for housing arrangements. Now, I'm one of those FTM kinda guys. I try to live by a man name, prefer man pronouns and such, but (quite obviously in fact) have a female body.

Now I'm wondering, you lovely friends o' mine, what should I do about the whole "college housing" thing? They require us to live on campus for the first year (it's Missouri State University I'm talkin here, if that helps at all.....), and I don't really know if I should file for a male's dorm or a female's dorm. Most are in the same building, just different floors. If I were in a dude dorm that'd match my mental state, but not my current body. And I'm WAAAAY too broke to even consider transition until far later on when I can save monies. But if I were in a girl dorm, even though it matched my vajayjay and chesticles, my girlfriend (who I'd hopefully be rooming with) and all my going-to-same-school buddies calling me Phil and using he/him/and such would probably cause a stir. I'm kinda stuck here, and I don't know who to ask. I would have cross-posted to more fitting communities but I don't really know of any, so if you could aid there as well it'd be highly appreciated.

This may be the product of my not sleeping worth a damn for the past two nights, but I swear it makes sense in my head. Sooo... yeah. Help. XD

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I’m sitting around with a needle in my arm - well, not a needle, a tube - and thinking there’s something I should be doing.  Not in general.  Not with my life.  Something I should be doing right now.  Some errand I could be running, some important decision I could be making.  I’m already doing homework while being checked in to medical daycare for the next four hours; what more do I want from myself?  The answer of course is as much as I could possibly give.  I want myself to give and give and give, and I want nothing to hinder that generosity ever, not even a tube in my arm or the slight flicker of my eyelids as I sit for yet another hour under fluorescent lights with barely anything to eat.  What brought me here is not my fault and I don’t believe in God, but every once in a while, mostly at moments like this, I succumb to feelings of victimhood.  Clearly, the fact that I’m only twenty-four years old and I need to go for monthly intravenous drug treatments means that I’m being punished for a crime I did not commit.  Clearly, because what else could it mean?  The other options are too scary, so I tend to go the religious route, at least for a couple of minutes per month, which is the maximum amount of “Why me?” bullshit my brain can handle.  Still, here it is again.  And now that I’m actively acknowledging its presence, it’s gone. 

I know I’m not being punished.  I’m here because I have a chronic illness of unknown origin, and this is how we’re dealing with it (“we” in this case being myself and my gastroenterologist) -- monthly infusions of a drug called Remicaid, believed to block inflammation before it has the chance to cause any problems.  And so far, it appears to be working.  It is problematic to sit around for this long without much to do, though.  Especially when the setting is a hospital.  It breeds thoughts of life and death and God and God knows what else; it can’t help it.  For me, the very smell of a hospital sends me back to the night I looked into the mirror and saw myself as a skeleton staring back at me, moving as I moved, wondering why I hadn’t noticed when a large part of me slipped out the door.  It wasn’t just that.  It was the way the light hit my face.  It was foreign but familiar.  Even as I was living in that moment, it seemed like I had already been there, and I was simply remembering what had happened.  I wondered if I’d already died and this was what death was, a series of memories of what it had been like to be alive; in my case, what it had been like on the way to death, the moment when I first realized where I was headed, that I could die and would die and there was nothing I could do about it.  Except I wasn’t dead.  I kept thinking new thoughts, wondering if I still had anything left in me, and it was in that wondering that I realized that I did.  What was left of me was standing right here and would now head back to the hospital bed, get some rest, and in the morning, start searching for where things went wrong.  The smell of a hospital is always the same, a too-clean smell.  A smell of white walls, if white walls could have a specific smell. A smell of loss.  Of goodbyes and hellos.  Of latex and disinfectant and detergent and bland food.  My eyelids flicker. 

I have more reading to do.

Exoskeleton
Samn Stockwell

Being inebriated is not the same
as being an invertebrate,
although the maintenance of rigid lines
may obscure taxonomic categories.

I resemble a beetle
sloshing around inside
while my hard legs
neatly grapple chair and air.

I am strong but my days are slippery.
Gnawing at my jaw
is the never-vanished nostalgia
for a time when I didn't exist.

From DMQ Review.

I'd really like to get a tattoo of "Mummy Boy" from Mummy Boy by Tim Burton. However, my biggest problem is that I would like to get it as close to the drawings as I can but I'm affraid of it coming out looking very wonky. Do you think that this drawing could be worked into a tattoo without losing his original design of it? This is the poem: http://homepage.eircom.net/~sebulbac/burton/mummyboy.html. Obviously the tattoo would be bigger then the drawings.
( A bigger picture of MB )