Out, Many Times

It was when Sheik turned into Zelda in Ocarina of Time and I was still attracted.

Incidentally, that was when my cousins started calling me “gay.”

I didn’t know what gay meant then.

I was 13.


One day in grade school I was asked what I thought of boys. I answered honestly — and after I answered all the girls avoided me. I’d said that I liked girls better, and suddenly I was shunned by all.

I was 12.


A few years earlier I’d had a good friend. We shared the same interests. We got along well. But a rumor started. I didn’t know about it until I arrived for the scheduled hangout and was told that her folks didn’t want “that type of girl” hanging around. Then the door was closed in my face.

I was 7.


I was 20.

I’d just successfully confessed my feelings to my crush on campus. He’d shot me down. My friends took me out for sushi to make me feel better. A few weeks passed and I saw more of the guy that made me realize that I’d actually dodged a bullet — the guy was beautiful, but BOY was he problematic. While all this was going on, one of my other friends had something awesome happen to her — and in her soaring euphoria, she kissed ME before skipping off to her destination.

“Guys,” I said to my group as the realization finally dawned, chest a flutter, “I think I might be bisexual.”


I was 30.

I’m freaking out because my clothes are gendered. Male is wrong. Female is wrong. But if that’s the case then what am I? I panic and cancel my plans. I hit up the new LGBT sub on 4chan of all places — where I learn about nonbinary identities. The panic subsides a bit, and I research into the night. By morning I have a handle on it.

Ze/zir.

Genderqueer/Genderflux.

And a private identification tied to my blood that I reveal only to those who I trust.

For the first time in years, things are clicking.


I am 33.

Things have settled in. Some have evolved: as a nonbinary individual, I now identify more as pansexual because it’s outside the binary. Some have refined: my attraction type is demi-panromantic, if we’re splitting hairs.
I have accepted that I am settled firmly beneath the trans umbrella — something that I denied vehemently before. And I am growing as a person.

… well, that’s my Coming Out™ story.

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Communication and me. 

Communication.

I have serious trouble detecting sarcasm in written word. As a result I tend to use the emoticons/emoji in written communications when I engage. It makes conveying tone in text difficult. Studies—albeit small ones—have shown that ending a sentence with a period conveys a hostile tone—something I rarely intend to do.

My “proper” structure, therefore, comes across as hostile without meaning to.

I therefore use emoticons/emoji to ensure that the proper tone comes through in my written text. But I have received push back for this as well. I was dismissed as “just some memeing girl.”

There are several things wrong with that statement but that’s for another time.

If anyone has a problem with this, it’s on them… Not me. I know me weaknesses. I know how to compensate.

On Black Power

As a black person hearing people compare black power to the KKK, I have a few words on TV matter.

Here’s the thing. Invoking Black Pride is us punching up at CENTURIES of (usually white) boots on our necks and celebrating our achievements.

Invoking “White Pride” usually means some heavy  dangerous shit is going down and someone is going to get hurt, destroyed, or killed.

People who get nervous when the former comes up think we’re going to wake up in the morning and do the same shit they did to us—which is untrue. We don’t have a fucking death wish. They’re not going to listen to reason, not for a while.

So if someone is unreasonably paranoid when you voice your Black Pride… Watch your six. Don’t hide your pride by any means, but watch your damn six.

Thank you, Mr Iwata.

The honest truth is that the news late last night that the president of Nintendo, Satoru Iwata, had died from cancer of the bile duct, hit me harder than dropping the man who is now my ex.

At the time I’d been thinking: he’s been a huge part of my life and there’s no way I’m going to be able to go back to things without him. Everything reminded me of him. It hurt, and I was losing my mind on a daily basis.

But that was connected to a distant abuse, a long manipulation. These are things I’m still washing off my skin.

This… Is different.

I never met Mr Iwata. The closest I’ve ever been is Nintendo Directs and the impossibly affable Iwata Asks. But thanks to his work programming so many of my favorite games, he has pretty much been a part of my whole life through his work. Even now there’s a stash of games and things around—I never was able to put down the sticks, as they say where I’m from.

And last night I saw the news, late, in a place that perks my “do a damn two second google search” sense, so I didn’t believe it until I did.

I’d be lying to you if I didn’t say it felt like I had just lost my favorite uncle. And when I found out how it happened I wanted to punch something. We can’t fucking do anything about cancer and it just takes from families, friends, the world.

So, once again I’m stuck in a room with things reminding me of someone out of reach. But again… This is different.

Mr Iwata’s work, both as programmer and president, has had such an impact on my life. Things that have brought me enjoyment,  things that he has said that have inspired me to no end—I will probably be making a compilation of things he has said to keep by my side to keep me going—and the difference is… These are things that I want to be surrounded by. This body of work is a worldwide legacy of perseverance, generosity, talent, humility, kindness, and humor. The world has been changed for the better for his influence. Really, there’s only one thing I can say:

Thank you, Mr Iwata.

Hobbies.

image

I’ve been experimenting with photography lately. There’s not a lot of things to do at a bus stop but there are often things to notice. In this particular day there were flowers from a bush. I’m not sure what kind these are (anyone out there know?) but as soon as I saw them I thought “OH MY GOD A SUBJECT” and broke out the Galaxy S3 (better camera) and started taking shots like mad.

…The next ten minutes were spent in Snapseed, editing the shot until it looked absolutely perfect.

I might need to rethink the “hobbyist” in front of the “shutterbug” in my Instagram profile.

I’ve actually been thinking that, beyond the cooking project I’ve got percolating (see what I did there?) I might be able to do a little something here. It’s not like I don’t have any training at all; I learned everything I know from my late mother, when she saw how excited I was about her old model Polaroid camera (it was the beige kind with the rainbow on it!) and got me the new one for Christmas. Simple stuff really:

• Watch for subjects,
• Make sure you use that square to say something,
• Pay attention to your Bigdaddy [my wonderful grandfather] because this is a lot like hunting

And finally

• sometimes, “because it’s pretty” or ” because I liked it” is a perfect reason.

I then proceeded to take pictures of everything I got for that Christmas. She showed me the “because it’s pretty” trick by arranging my new Game Boy and games and how it made for an even better “LOOK AT THIS” effect than just snapping away. She said it was more “exteticly pleasing.”

(…I was five going on six okay? I was precocious as fuck but I couldn’t wrap my mouth around the word aesthetically just yet. But I knew it meant prettier and arty.)

And yes I also wound up taking pictures of the pictures I took.

Nintendo Hard a Turn-On? Hard Games Compared to a Certain Kind of Sex

This makes a strange sort of sense. I’m going to dive into this using one of my favorite genres as an example, fighting games. All games have the effect to some extent–I remember actually getting weak in the knees when I finally finished off Kefka in Final Fantasy VI, after so many attempts over the years ending with disastrous failures–but it’s most immediate in a brawler.

Anyone who, like I, has gotten into the habit of getting to the quickest finish at any given difficulty level just so that they can ramp it up higher to feel that struggle, that rush again, can agree with this, even if the Freudian interpretation of things is a little bit derivative. (Keep in mind that I am not an expert–just a gamer who remembers that very first huge, whooshing frisson of pleasure that happens right after you land that very last hit on a boss and that split second happens where the music just stops–just halts–and the explosions start, and your adversary becomes a slowly disintegrating pile of STUFF that isn’t going to exist anymore.) It’s a mini-chill of sorts, and in some cases it can feel better than sex. You’ve just grabbed this thing, pounded it into submission, and now it’s just watching you stand over its beaten body like some sort of more civilized barbarian.

In a way, it’s a primal return to the activities that helped shape civilization. We fight and destroy, and instead of looting, or fine slaves and wives/husbands to be had, we’re in it for nothing but that rush that we get from pulling off each victory. 

On the other side, each hit that we sustain in the fight is remembered, stored away as motivation for the rest of the encounter, and we return it–double–treble–sometimes more–each more satisfying than the last. It gets to the point where you think you’ll never get anywhere, and then–it happens. It’s different from game to game–maybe there’s a flash. Maybe the music stops abruptly–or maybe there’s an abrupt tonal shift in it. Or maybe you see that the numbers are in a range that can best be described as “Damn, no one could survive THAT.” Maybe suddenly there’s a TIME STOP–and you see that you can end it right here with a flashy finishing blow.

That might not be the same sensation as a sexual climax, but it can feel damned close. It’s a rush that is more than enough reason to make you pick up the sticks again, and again, and again. 

LiveJournal:
Chrysanth WebStory What’s your WebStory today?

Someone asked me how to be more confident. I broke it down for them like this.

Carry yourself like you own this damn town. If that feels a bit much, carry yourself like you will own this damn town soon. Look nice. Put on that outfit that makes you feel like the pimp in the Jay-Z track. Despite what all those self Help books say the human animal is a visual creature, and the biggest part of the First Impression™ is what you eyeball.

You know those interests you have that would never come up normally? When they do and everyone else is stymied, BAM! there you are with the knowledge. Instant boost. Remember that feeling.

Don’t know what’s something but want to know? Ask. BAM. You’re the guy who listens and doesn’t pretend to know everything. People like that.

After a while of this you’ll start noticing something — people calling you the confident nice dude/ette who knows XYZ but isn’t afraid of stepping back when something is way over your head.

And the kicker? You haven’t done anything different. Stood up a little straighter, maybe. Hair cut, nails nice. Pleasant to be around to boot, head on your shoulders not just for decoration.

Who WOULDN’T want to hang with that?