I have been pretty successful.

Malaprops:
-"The PowerBook"
-"Transgender Warriors"

Barnes and Noble:
-"Gender Outlaw"

A.C. Moore:
-oil paints
-watercolor paints
-paintbrushes
-sketchbook and colored pencils
-glue dots
-fox beanie baby

GoodWill:
-beige slouch boots with cuffed tops
-navy pinstriped blazer with mahogany suede collar

Random Thrift Store:
-Greek (wolf? rabbit? fake?) fur coat of my dreams
-bright rainbow heart earrings
-red suspenders

Walgreens:
-ridiculous amount of mechanical pencils

I found out how to hack my own computer into letting me transfer music from my ipod onto my external hard-drive without paying a damned cent.

I tried on a giant black victorian wig covered in fake spider-webs, spiders, and blood-spatter.

I made BFFs with a store clerk named Mercedes at Macy's and she is going to try and hook a sister up.

I saw some of my babies.

I started a new writing-only journal called "Nine Foxes," which YOU should friend if you (STILL) have a livejournal.

I have regularly worn makeup.

I have showered daily? Say what?

I have gone to therapy with the therapist I trust more than most, if not all.

I have written bunches and bunches.



But, I haven't really started what I set out to begin. And I still have to complete my routine of going through these bullshit motions, despite the fact that I know more and more each day that I do not belong in this style.