i'm cutting off my titties

or something else witty about top surgery

we were in a cabin. somewhere in kentucky, lord knows i wish i could remember where. maybe near cumberland lake? it was my wife’s birthday. she’d wanted a cabin trip to just relax. her mom had passed earlier that year so it was simultaneously challenging and very extremely necessary for her to spend some time in stillness.

the house was like it came right out of a 90s catalogue. the couch certainly hadn’t been replaced since the first one emerged from the sears’ & roebuck catalogue circa 1993. it plopped itself in the middle of the room, too small to properly fill it, but too big to ignore. in front a large tv, where large refers to the depth instead of the width. behind the couch a round table with 4 matching chairs. an orangey wood that felt both sturdy and uncertain. the seat hard enough to remind you to breath.

the rooms were equally unimpressive and mostly what i remember about that house is all the porches. the 6 of us gathered on them, chain smoking joints with the occasional cigarette and bourbon.

in my experience there’s two kinds of high. the high you get in the city, where there’s so much stimulation you just wanna scratch your skin off and check the seat for bugs…again. and then there’s the high you get in the country. where the only sounds are the bugs and the birds and the whispers of the trees. the kind where you just float off into some other place, held by the medicine of the land and the drugs.

it was in the haze of that trip - covered in keif and tobacco ash - i looked over at my wife on the last night and said, “baby? i think i’m trans…” and she said “i know”.