Sad Bitch Hour: It's Dysphoria Weekend™

Sorry, what’s that?

How’s the transition going, you ask?

Oh girl, you want to know?

Are you sure?

You really want to know?

You really, really want to know?

Alright, I’ll tell you.

But just remember, you asked for this…

Welcome to my waking nightmare.

Ugh. Fuck, why? Why??

To my great displeasure, I have awoken in yet another day. Today it is Sunday, which means it’s the second part of this wondrous weekend I’m having. Yesterday was shit but maybe today will be better?

Of course it fucking won’t. It’s 2025, girl! We’re all rapidly plummeting toward the-world-as-we-know-it’s death and the brakes failed ages ago. It only gets worse from here. Welcome to the new normal. Put on your big girl panties.

(Or don’t actually, because you still have your male appendage so you sure as hell aren’t gonna fit in them.)

I pull out my phone and start my morning scroll. Yeah, yeah, doomscrolling is bad for you, but don’t worry I know what I’m doing because I heard about something called exposure therapy once.

I’m on reddit because I guess I hate myself, or maybe I have an unexplored masochism kink. Both are equally likely. My feed is comprised of cat photos, some whining about the absolute state of various video games, and a whole lot of trans-related posts. Posts like:

Someone called me Ms. at work and I really liked it, am I trans?

I want to cry every time I look in the mirror, what’s wrong with me?

I’m dating this girl who thought she was a lesbian until she met me and she says I’m not like other guys, what does this mean?

My boyfriend said I’ll never be a woman and called me a tranny, is he being transphobic?

God, this shit is like, so 2024. Bitch, you’re trans. The answer is always that you’re trans and you should break up with your boyfriend. Or something. Whatever. I don’t care.

Today, I do not care. Today, I regret waking up.

I think I’m at a low point in my transition, honestly. I’ve ticked off a lot of the easy boxes like buying new clothes, learning makeup, and getting my ears pierced. Now I’m left with the hard, not-so-fun, long-term stuff like laser hair removal (maybe one day I won’t be a broke bitch and can afford it) and voice training and growing my hair out and just fucking waiting around for hormones to do their thing. I can actually see the girl in the mirror now—whoop-de-fucking-doo—but it’s basically just a waiting game until I actually reach her.

And goddamn, haven’t I waited long enough? Get off your ass, girl! Why are you making me chase you? Meet me halfway, at least. Fuck.

I wallow in my misery underneath my weighted blanket for a while. I need to go into the city today to buy a business casual outfit—or “cool biz” as it’s known in Japan—for a conference on Tuesday. The only clothes I have that fit the bill are from pre-transition when I was bloated to all hell, and honey we can’t be having any of that now, can we?

Thinking about going out into public like this makes me want to die, though. So I present an incredible offer to my rational brain (RB): what about today’s shopping, tomorrow? That’s good. God, I’m so innovative. Steve Jobs should hire me.

Alright, it’s a stupid fucking idea, but it’s exactly the kind of stupid fucking idea that I’m currently prone to going along with, and sure enough RB falls for it. Ha, dumbass! Not even estrogen can vanquish the procrastinator within me.

I should probably actually do something with my day, though. I may be a sad bitch, but I at least have enough sense to realize that wallowing around in bed all day isn’t actually as intelligent of a plan as I might think. Get up, RB commands. Ugh. Just a few more minutes. Get the fuck up, RB screams. Fine, I’ll get up but you didn’t have to be a bitch about it. I was gonna get up anyway. Eventually.

I drag myself to the mirror and like, how the fuck do you think I feel about what I see? Dark bags under my eyes like I’m a drug addict, and two day’s worth of beard growth because I felt so gross yesterday that I couldn’t be fucked to even bother shaving. I mean, what’s even the point if I’m just going to look like a dude anyway? At best, maybe I can look like a fag, but you know that’s not really the reason I started transition, is it? No one had any problem with pinning me as a fag before I started transitioning, anyhow.

Whatever. Today, I don’t care about those things. Dysphoria? Ha, who’s she?

I step into the shower, which I’ve grown to have a very love/hate relationship with because I can look down at my feet and BEHOLD! Tits! … and a dick. Yes, this is what I am now. Somewhere between man and woman. A weird transsexual freak.

At least no one can tell if you’re crying when you’re in the shower. Haha!

Shower’s over and I’m feeling like maybe I should try actually combating my dysphoria by trying to look good, instead of just throwing on a depression hoodie like yesterday. I switch on my razor and get to shaving. Little cuts start to appear across my face because that’s just what happens when you shave, I guess? I mean, it’s 2025, you’d think we’d have a better way of shaving without destroying your face but I guess my face is just too sensitive, so fuck me. Better to look a little cut up than to have a beard? I guess?

????

While my face dries from that balm I slather all over my face in the hopes that it’ll prevent my face from turning bright red and bumpy after shaving, but in reality my face still turns red and bumpy only a little bit less so than without it, I look through my wardrobe. It’s really stupid. 70% of my clothes are from pre-transition and I treat them like they’re coated in the bubonic plague. Thing is, plenty of clothes in that 70% are still perfectly fine to wear, but nope. Can’t do it. Won’t do it. They have that filthy fucking boy stench all over them. Instead, I stick to my new clothes that don’t fit me right. You know, the ones designed for hips I don’t have? The ones that assume a bust I don’t have? The ones tailored without a cock in mind? Yes, those.

Last week, a friend asked me why don’t I ever wear a dress? Fair question. A dress wouldn’t have the bulge issue. Still, it’s not going to happen. You will never see me in a dress, I said, not for a very long time. Why not, they asked. I sighed and explained that if I put on a dress and look in the mirror and see a dude in a dress, I think I might just go postal.

If I’m going to try to combat my dysphoria today, I suppose I ought to choose something that’ll make me feel like not-a-dude. How about that skirt that I bought and vowed to never let a single other soul ever see me in because I have a crushingly pathetic sense of self-confidence? Well, I didn’t shave my legs today, so that’s out. Whatever, it’s Sunday and I’m not stepping foot outside. A cami and those pants I bought at H&M that I got really excited about because oh my god I’m wearing girl pants for the first time and then subsequently mortified once I put them on again at home and saw a clear outline of my schlong—yeah, those’ll do. Who cares.

I return to the mirror and push play on my “Bad Girl Club” playlist which is supposed to be affirming and empowering, but today it just feels like it’s mocking me for being bad at being a girl. Which, fair enough. I mean, I can’t really argue with that.

Time for makeup. I decide to try a darker eye shadow today to reflect all these capital-F “Feelings” swirling around inside of me, like I’m Robert Pattinson in The Batman, which is a very funny analogy because he is a boy and I am not really. I carelessly smear it over my eyelids and add in some eyeliner with a pen. I’ve never been very good with the pen and today is no exception but fuck it, it doesn’t matter because today I do not care.

Delilah Bon’s aggressively feminist Dead Men Don’t Rape blares out my speakers and girl, it’s a vibe. I don’t know if it’s a good one, but it’s definitely a vibe.

Finished, I look at myself in the mirror. My eye shadow is all over the place and it’s way too dark for my protruding eyebrow bone that already casts my eyes into shadow. My eyeliner looks like a five-year-old’s crayon disasterpiece that they did on the wall while Mommy wasn’t looking. I look like shit. It’s perfect.

Now’s the point in my morning routine where I take a selfie to document my transition. I tell myself this is a really good idea, but so far I’m not really convinced. It mostly just makes me feel worse about myself, if you can believe that, but yesterday I managed to take a photo so today certainly isn’t going to be the day when I fuck up my 150+ day streak. I put on my best bitchy face and flip off the camera, as a notification from the Associated Press pops down: The U.S. attacked three Iranian nuclear sites, Trump says, joining Israeli air campaign as Tehran promises to retaliate.

Yeah, sure, fuck it. Why not? Not like it’s a surprise, I mean we all knew this was going to happen as soon as Trump started talking in pluralities, right? And what’s another war, anyway? America’s kill count is like its financial debt: too fucking high for anyone to understand or give a shit about. Like, 30 trillion dollars? What does that even mean?

So fuck it, what’s a few more bodies, right? What’s more American than blood in the Middle East?

I’m firmly atheist, except for today. Today, I believe in Hell and I’m in it.

Hey Luci, I say with a flirty wave.

Hey girlie, he says. His horns look extra delicious today. Damn, he could totally hit, I mean, if he wanted to.

Bet you’re loving all this, huh, babe?

Girl, you don’t even know! That prick is bringing me so much business. We’re having to work overtime just to accommodate all these MAGA fucks!

That’s great, hun, I say. You gonna have my E ready for me this month?

Of course, of course, he says with a hand wave. What do you think I am, some kinda shady back alley dealer? I’ve never let you down. He pauses and raises an eyebrow. Assuming you’re good on quota this month?

Naturally. Wouldn’t dream of shorting you, my dear.

He smiles. That’s my girl!

(All trans girls get their estrogen from Satan in exchange for spreading the trans agenda. You didn’t know that? Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing for you.)

I sit my bony ass down in front of my computer. What’s nice about the Internet is it makes it easy to hyper-focus, and then I get so absorbed into whatever it is that I’m doing that I start to meld with the 1’s and 0’s and I can leave behind my corporeal flesh. Lately, I’ve been feeling all sorts of emotions which is theoretically what I wanted when I started HRT, but then again maybe not like this? There was a weird, fucked up sense of peace in feeling numb all the time, at least.

Anyway, it doesn’t really matter because I’d sooner fucking die than go back to the way things were before. I still believe this, even if today I’d rather bury myself in the nearest rice paddy for a few years. Maybe the next few decades. It’d save everyone the trouble of digging me a grave. I’d probably be better at being fertilizer than a girl, anyhow.

So, I beg the Internet to bludgeon my senses until I’m a Pretty Girl. Except instead of playing a game or watching YouTube until my brain rots away, today I decide to write—an unusual decision, as I never write on the weekends. However, today I have Important Words that must be expressed. It’s imperative that the three people that read the things I write hear about-

Well actually, given the horrifying headline I just received on my phone, this isn’t important in the slightest. But what else am I, a sad bitch in her sadder apartment, going to do? No, today I write because fuck you.

I navigate to some pretentious blog with a cat in a coffee cup as its logo and start a new post. I give it some dramatic and slightly provocative title, and a subtitle containing a reference that most people probably won’t even get because I guess I like to see how far I can crawl up my own ass.

I’ll look at it later and roll my eyes, I’m sure.

But today, I do not give a fuck.