My friend Michael, now Michelle, sent me questions she wanted to ask all her friends. Never thought of them myself, but now I hope someone could show an answer. This issue just popped up yesterday. Pretty excellent.

Don’t you think it’s kinda weird that if you want to have a surgeon break your nose, suck out fat from your hips, stretch your face tight over your skull, or add dangerous globs of saline to your breast, you just have to sign up, pay the bills and do it..

But if you want to change your genitalia, you must first live as the opposite sex *before* the change, go to therapy, and play the nice girl before you ever get the permission?

I found this whole surgery thing amusing. Michelle had been living as a girl before she started taking anti-androgen pills and she doesn’t looked kind of in between since. It seems this is like going out in drag against her will. A subaltern drag. For how many more months or years she has to do this, only the process knows. But does she really have to make up an entire childhood as a little girl, so when talked with people, they wouldn’t suspect she was once a guy? I have no idea what other stuff she must practice everyday.

She further said that being in a therapy for being a transsexual is the only therapy where they encourage you to lie. Isn’t ironic?
I take my pen reluctantly, believing as I do in the virtues of acquaintance and world peace and not wanting to stir up a human heart, but when it comes to a friend and what he means to me as a genuine confidant and you – a nitwit pokemon, a sniveling drunk who pukes out an apology so self-serving, I’m afraid I must take a firm stand.

Perhaps serious commitment is not of interest to you and that, you valued my friend less. It’s as if you think relationships can be woven without a hem of loyalty, that you can easily mope around and look for another welcoming outlet into which you can release your salivating fantasies and, when caught, expect my friend (who knows the routes and dangers of homosexual affairs) to forgive such follies.

To be fair with you, I know you worked hard to have a good partner (what faggot doesn’t do that?) and I do not question your traditional I-need-to-meet-the-people-in-your-life nature, or your forget-the-details approach, or your time. But you made a grave mistake when you went south just to f*ck a culprit (whom my friend knew for awhile and didn’t expect to be the threat of this whole affair). If the adherents of such activity wish to enjoy its good time and the wild gyrations in the confines of wherever the two of you were that moment, such is a privelege only meant for uncommitted folks or those faggots professional enough to get away, because when this congress is thrusted upon a relationship (which you are in) and you expect my friend to forgive or to choose between pride and love or bribe his long-held idealisms just to give you another chance, not only are you breaking Trust, you are also imposing the very unpleasant thing for a starting relationship. That is submission.

On the other hand, you must remember that we are no longer in the medieval age, the time when people could freely conquer another land and were always ready to take off their shields to bed with a stranger without thinking whether that partner is clean or not. We are in a generation that diseases can knock a person right after his pleasures, gossips can make your face fall off in public. I do not claim that the culprit or whoever you are into are carriers, but you should have realized that the vast majority of people like us is active and some of them maybe are contracted from God-knows-what chances.

And you know what rudes me most? You finished a health-conscious degree. Don’t you have a little thought of what your activity might give you in the future? You should have not taken the course and, instead, proceed slutting around. And don’t you realize that a stranger is ten times (or more) dangerous to you than you are to my friend? Does this compulsion to f*ck a stranger make you a better lover? And now that things have come to unexpected endings, can a satisfied penis save your face?

You know what… you should have remained closeted or acted straight for the rest of your life because you cannot validate the heart of a faggot out of such unapologetic action. You don’t have a character to function.

And please..

Don’t swim upstream. Don’t piss into the wind. You’re not a God. Your c*mshots are not as charming as confettis. Simply get along by going along and carry your head higher than your crotch.

I think about carnal pleasures (most of the times) and look around and feel certain that something tragic is well on its way. All of this is easy to say in recollection, and I am not claiming prophecy. I am not playing made up fortune teller. I do feel, though, and I believe it’s true, that tragedies- all kinds of disasters- are always coiled up and ready to come, and that the happening of them has been scheduled, someone, long in advance.

I don’t know when it will come or what form it would take, nor do I know that no man can give another safety in it.

There will always be one final everything– the last word, of course, the last blink of an eye; there will be one last blog entry you write, the last log-in or log-out click, one last emoticon you will use. There will be a last time you can open the fridge, a last movie you will see, a last time you ride in a jeepney with nostalgic songs. It doesn’t matter how many coins you throw into the wishing well or how many times you kneel down a prayer in a day. You will make one last photograph, and be photographed one final time by somebody else; there will be one last time you will walk on a particular street, one last time you will go out from your house or come back into it. You will have one last beer, one last dream, one last orgasm, one last cigarette. There will be one final time you will see or will be seen by the man or the woman you have loved, or the people you have known, unless, of course, you outlive them all, which is unlikely.

You will lick one last stamp for the last letter you made.

I hope you won’t miss it. But you won’t know it when you do.