Not happy
As I muddle through a difficult month, there’s a stupid list of things I am not happy about:
That Boris Johnson is a fool but also apparently a Prime Minister for some time yet.
That Scott Morrison is transphobic, also a fool, and also apparently a Prime Minister for some time yet.
That I have to wait twelve weeks for the first available appointment with my psychologist who specialises in gender dysphoria.
That apparently I am lucky I ‘only’ have to wait twelve weeks.
That, having got a mental health plan last month to cover said psychologist appointments, I have to go straight back and get another one, because apparently they only run for calendar years, regardless of when you get one prepared. You would not make this up.
That I have so much work, I do not have time to arrange baseline pathology tests and follow-up GP appointments before I can consider hormone treatment.
The thought of hormone treatment.
Being old. I never got to be twenty-something and wear short skirts without people thinking anything other than that I had nice legs. Instead, people now will think “there’s no fool like an old fool.”
That I don’t know how to find a good cosmetic surgeon.
That the hair on my thighs keeps regrowing despite over six months of relentless lasering. Doesn’t it know that it is summer and it’s meant to be gone?
That vanity is a curse.
That this list is too long.
That I have enough to be going on with and should probably remove the lines about Prime Ministers because, really, who cares?
That I care.
