The Misgendering of a Sacred Deer

And vignettes surrounding the most human of acts: going number two.

I have no choice but to address the (trans) elephant in the room: after publishing last week’s essay, I feel euphoric, free, and like I’m actually being my full self for the first time in ages. The response to my coming out as trans has been nothing short of astounding: to everyone who sent messages about words that resonated with you, thank you so, so much. It means the world. An even bigger thanks to everyone who sent their own humiliating stories, like I requested. I have been laughing so hard thinking about how many of you shat yourselves in public (more on that later). 

I’ve been really, really depressed for the past year or so (unique!)—may I recommend to anyone else struggling with this debilitating illness: try coming out of any closets, proverbial or literal, you might be trapped in. Maybe you’re one of the girls locked in an attic on Mare, in which case, Go Piss Girl! Maybe you’re a secret Nickelback stan, like InStyle Magazine Special Projects Editor Peyton Lindsay Dix. Whatever it is, free yourself. When they say it rains it pours, they mean that once you come out as trans people will start being nicer to you and invite you to their parties. 

I had to go to an Auto Body Shoppe for the first time in my life last week (no, it’s not my car)—long story short, they addressed me as a “gentleman.” I wanted to be mad, but the truth is how could the employees of Blue Brothers Auto in Greenpoint have possibly known I’d posted a newsletter coming out as a beautiful tranny that Tuesday? I had a mask on, so it wasn’t the facial hair. I guess it’s my bushy eyebrows. I’d trim them, but I love them, and they remind me of that one bushy-eyebrowed bitch on ANTM. 

I went to PTown this weekend with a bunch of faggots. Can I just say it… do drugs! They are so fun! (To my four much younger siblings, if you’re reading this, first of all slay, and second of all please DO NOT do drugs (without me!)). Shoutout to the daddies of Provincetown, Massachusetts (especially the really old and bald one who fingered me on the dance floor) and a special shoutout to all my faggy sisters, old and new.

The Girl Who Pooped in the Hornet’s Nest

After last week’s overwhelmingly positive reaction, I feel compelled to keep up the oversharing of mortifying anecdotes. So, here are a few choice vignettes of mine about pooping.

Franklin, WI: When I was in eighth grade, my sister Winnie and I were extremely, debilitatingly addicted to The Sims 2. We had recently purchased an(other) expansion pack: The Sims 2: Open For Business. I had a flourishing flower shop going and had not left the computer for eight hours and twenty minutes. I was wearing fluttering basketball shorts with no underwear. I had to poop really bad, and suddenly I decided to finally leave our olive green pleather desk chair and run for the bathroom. Before I got there, an orb (tennis ball-sized) of poop escaped my body and flew freely out of my basketball shorts onto the wooden floor. I picked up the orb with my bare hand and put it in the toilet. I washed my hands and continued playing The Sims 2: Open For Business.

Los Angeles, CA: I lived in Los Angeles for a few months after graduating college a semester early (Mark Zuckerberg found bleeding out). I tried out for an improv team at The Improv Space in Westwood. Out of forty-five or so auditioners, I was chosen to be on a team. I felt so happy. The night before my new team’s first practice session, I ate a bag of Fritosⓒ Scoops and Fritosⓒ brand Bean Dip. As I was driving to Westwood (about an hour’s commute), I farted a lot in the car. I figured I would use the In N Out bathroom next door to The Improv Space before going into rehearsal, just to be safe. When I pulled down my pants and underwear at the toilet, I saw I had decidedly shat myself, and had been sitting in that shit for Lorde knows how long. I had to throw away my underwear and then go to my first improv rehearsal with a bunch of new teammates I had never really met and deeply wanted to impress. None of them ever knew… I hope. 

Los Angeles Pt. 2: Later that day, I was an extra in a student film. I showed up to set and they asked me to take off my skinny jeans to put on the costume. I told them I couldn’t, as I had had to throw away my underwear after shitting myself.

Brooklyn, NY: My British boyfriend Tom and I had a Saturday night of pleasure—dancing, drinking, fucking—about two years ago. I was wearing a jockstrap and the most stunning zip-up denim dress. The next morning, I offered to run out for eggs and coffee. I put on the dress and the jockstrap and Tom’s flip-flops. I walked outside his apartment in Crown Heights and farted, thinking it would just be a regular fart. A medallion of oatmeal-consistency shit slithered down my leg, planting itself upon the sidewalk and on Tom’s shoes. Not knowing what to do, I did nothing, and kept walking to the grocery store. I bought the coffee and eggs, wondering if anyone was noticing the poop on my leg and Tom’s shoe. On my way back to his apartment, I clocked the shockingly large circle of shit still sitting on the sidewalk directly outside his apartment (fun fact: Barbara Streisand was born in that building and Albert Einstein died in that building—it used to be a hospital). I went upstairs and jumped in the shower, bringing Tom’s shoes with me. After cleaning off, I confessed my sins and made soft-boiled eggs. 

Reply to this email with your own fecal stories! It really makes my day.

Song of Summer Finalists

The race to be The Song of Summer is a very tight one, and the frontrunners are constantly shifting. As of the time of publication, here are the top ten finalists, ranked in their current order. Final standings to be revealed imminently.

10. “Scream & Shout” — will.i.am and Britney, bitch

9. “Til The World Ends (Femme Fatale Remix)” — Britney Spears, Nicki Minaj, and that’s Kesha!

I’m mortified to break the news to you that this is not on Spotify. Sign the petition to change that here.

8. “Heaven” — DJ Sammy, Do

7. “Babylon” — Lady Gaga

6. “Bleeding Love” — Leona Lewis

5. “Boss Ass Bitch” — Nicki Minaj

4. “Itty Bitty Piggy” — Nicki Minaj

3. “212” — Azealia Banks

2. “Replay” — Lady Gaga

1. “Together Again” — Janet Jackson

Last Looks!

Happy Pride, lmfao. My Venmo is @hilton-dresden. Your funds go towards the rent and chicken enchiladas of a gorgeous young woman sipping on a dirty cocktail of mental illnesses, diagnosed and otherwise.

USA Today reports that Ellie Kemper appears to have been involved in a KKK prom or some disgusting racist white supremacist shit back in 1999? That’s fucking depressing. 

During the hangover recovery periods between nights out this past weekend, I was reading a collection of short stories, Music For Chameleons, by one of my all-time favorite authors, Truman Capote. He uses a lot of parentheses, just like me! And then he went and wrote this, referencing an arguing couple: “(really, it was a moment out of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?)” (Capote 16). Readers who have been with me since day one will know I recently wrote about my experience watching that film for the first time. It just felt like an uncanny coincidence. And then, just a few pages later, one of Capote’s characters says: “Forgive my babbling on” (Capote 19). BABBLING ON! I feel like it’s a sign from our goddess Luna that this newsletter will eventually be recognized culturally as the next In Cold Blood.

All for now—I randomly actually secured some paid writing gigs and need to get back to those. Have a fun, slutty week and weekend Vapid Whores!