Trans Women are Everything
Listen, it’s like this.
One, they are rescue dogs (yes, fucking really, don’t do that with your eyebrows, I can already see the letters P R O B L E M A T I C rising like little balloons in the hot vacuum of your mind, well pop that immediately, because I am a trans woman, and while that doesn’t entirely get me off the hook, it does slow you down enough for me to get to the next sentence). They come from all over the world, have been through so fucking much and all they want is a safe place to live and a few treats.
Two, they are unbearably hot. Yes, all of them, even me. I can’t begin to explain how intergalactically, extravagantly hot trans women are. I can only communicate it in the medium of fire, and that doesn’t work so well in print. Just believe me. They are. I have burnt-out lava pits for eye holes.
Three, they don’t have hang-ups, they have traumas. They’ve all been through hell and have horror stories that will make you want to scoop out your brain and tear off your ears. Their life stories, if laid out in 3D form, would look like a broken Hieronymous Bosch. But their ethics? Their morality? Oh, that is pure. They are angels. They accept; they welcome; they understand. They hug.
Four, there are no gates, no walls, and no barriers. They don’t set definitions on guard or dig obstacles or set purity tests on the ramparts of their citadel. You are trans enough if you want to enter their Camelot, and even if you don’t end up staying, you are free to look around.
Five, no one fucks like trans women. No-one. You can’t imagine. You can try, you probably are right now, but you aren’t even in the same universe, never mind the same page. They fuck next level. You wish.
Six, trans women’s passions are the passions of a child who was supposed to be broken but kept playing with their toys and now loves those toys and all they represent. They aren’t pretending to like the same TV that everyone else in the office likes and they aren’t painting over the walls of their obsessions and delights with cishet beige. You could be like that, too, but no wait, you can’t, because you aren’t a trans woman. You’re still wearing the browns, the three-quarter length shorts, the therapy beard.
Seven, they are out of the matrix, they have hopped the fence and they have dug their way to freedom. They tunneled through shit after twenty years locked away just to stand in a river on a storm-shaken night and cry their real names to the angry skies. You can’t stop them, governor. They are the future.
Eight, it is not true that they all eat pickles, that is a smear. They eat cupcakes and fairy bread and drink only Elven wine laced with moonbeams, occasionally noodles, but never mayonnaise.
Nine, they represent the ultimate achievement in human self-creation. You think your Oscar would be bleating about chromosomes or karyotypes or toilet etiquette in the face of this eruption of pure expression, this fabulous collaboration of beauty? Nah, Oscar would not be pulling on the black shirt and the sour face and writing terrible poetry about gametes. He’d be wearing a blue, pink and white carnation and making you boil in your own piss and bile every single day.
Ten, there’s going to come a time when the LGBTQIA+ tribe has swollen so large and has taken up all of your alphabets, that when you look around for another cishet mob to join, there will be nobody there and you will realise that you are the dodo on this island. Diversity is humanity, you show your whole monkey ass when you talk about ‘evolutionary design’ and your little Victorian death masque binary will not survive the decade. Trans women are the stormtroopers of our future, an elite corps of extravagantly amazing, battle-hardened and utterly beautiful pioneers, who are laying out the next iteration of civilization with grace, poise and laughter. You are nothing; they are everything.
