À savoir. Our boy/girl (s'il le veut),--Damn, I forget his name (because I am old and don't believe in the non-cosmetic actuality of transgender--to me he is, obviously, a doll-maker who has personified, and identified with, his dolls: the old Geppetto/Pinocchio syndrome), whatever, [he] is a very knowledgeable Source of What is Thought. That's what matters about him; not whatever paltry token of validation I might submit to him for his extra-biological gender-identification by calling him her. It's not my place to indulge him, but I love what he has to say.
¿"Natalie"?--maybe, in a (shudder, retch) sexual context; but I beg to be excused from contemplating anything of the sort--I call him Nate.
I burn hot. I tend to exhaust people in conversation, like Margaret Fuller did Carlyle. Which leaves me (but apparently not Margaret) always wishing I'd shut up sooner. I have quite a few friends and not many enemies, but I'm very proud of the few I do have. There is consensus among my friends about me, which is how I know to write about myself. What my enemies think of me I have no idea. That, of course, could be dangerous.
The list of interests and favorites is absurdly partial and half-assed, particularly as to music and books. It's the stupid format of the blog itself, as given, that, of course, I color outside the lines and burst the seams of.
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