So I'm puttering about online tonight when I notice some greasy basement dwelling mouth-breather I've never talked to or heard of has decided to voice his opinion of my looks on Twitter.
This is the picture in question, shared with my friends on what used to be TwitXpic, a twitter pic site for naughty pics. Since you all know this is a mature content blog I'll just go ahead and assume tits don't make you run screaming for the hills lest you faint or get the vapours. And, as I happen to rather LIKE my boobs despite generally low self-esteem about other things, I have no qualms in showing them off. A great rack on a fat girl is STILL a great rack.
Now, to no one's surprise, the general attitude of my friends and family online was to just shrug this douchebag's moronic statement off as the unimportant bleating of some anonymous jerk whose opinion means nothing. And they're right of course. Even I with my generally poor self-opinion know that the opinions of people I care about should outweigh the insults of some random idiot being an asshole on purpose for a cheap giggle. So when his opinion on seeing my tits was to tweet "KILL IT! KILL IT WITH FIRE", my friends believed, rightly so, that I should just ignore him.
But if you've been following my tweets or reading my blog the past couple weeks, you know I've had an insane time of late, with ridiculous extremes of highs and lows, from greiving my cousin's suicide, to outdebating rightwing religious hatemongers so effectively their only defense was to either try to pray my gay away or just outright pretend I never existed. Oh and being bullied into standing up for myself by idiot mansplainers trying to dismiss traumas and horrors I lived through as irrelevant to issues of someone INFLICTING such traumas and horrors, which instead of shutting me up had the very odd effect of somehow making me see the value in my life and history that my friends and family have been trying to make me see for years.
So let's give the douchebags of the internet a lesson in Penny Logistics.
Yes I'm fat.
Yes I qualify as a legitimate freak of nature.
And yes sometimes my self-esteem is below sediment.
In spite of my tendancy to believe myself that I'm nothing at all special, enough people disagree that even I have to acknowledge it. There's only so many times 100 people can tell one person there are flowers in the garden before that one person finally looks at the flowers that were always there but they couldn't see.
First of all, established successful authors Niel Gaiman, Kate Bornstein and Poppy Z Brite have all commented glowingly on things I wrote.
Neil, authhor of things like Neverwhere, Stardust, American Gods and Sandman, read my blog on Trans-On-Trans bigotry and called it thought-provoking and intelligently written.
Poppy, author of such brilliant gothic horror stories as Lost Souls, actually started following me specifically because I was out-debating Kevin Smith (of Clerks Fame) left and right when he actually had his fans start attacking me on Twitter for deciding politely to stop following him for a few days because I was put off by his particular idea of fundraising for breast cancer research.
And good ole Aunty Kate, author of Gender Outlaw, Hello Cruel World, and My Gender Workbook, has read and commented on this very blog more than once and is actually actively nagging me to get off my ass and write a book.
Get that douchebags? PEOPLE WHO MAKE GOOD MONEY WRITING have told me I'm a damn good writer. People who are certainly under no obligations to even acknowledge me let alone praise my talent.
Next we have porn stars. Women who are widely considered among the most beautiful on the planet. Women people pay good money to see naked. Women who could pick and choose who they even acknowledge let alone call friend.
And I have over two dozen on my Twitter list. No I won't name names. Anyone who REALLY needs to know so badly can figure it out easily enough by checking my Following/Followers list on Twitter.
But all of them call me friend. Some of them even call me a sister. I have been entrusted with phone numbers and private e-mail addresses, invited to private gatherings not business related, and publicly defended by them when stupid people get dismissive of me. One had me phone in to a Playboy Radio show she was a guest on and loudly verbally bitchslapped the hostess for belittling me when I said I considered a Twitter friend like her more than just a Pen Pal. And ALL of them tell me I'm beautiful. Some even get angry with me if I argue. I have had some of them openly tell me they'd slap me if I ever self-depracated in their presence.
So if these women, who are worshipped and adored by millions, decided I'm worth looking at and talking to, why would I care what greasy basement-dwelling cheeto-stained douches say? I mean, come on!
Women millions want to fuck,
versus greasy losers who mostly fuck their hands.
Whose opinion of my looks do YOU think holds more weight folks? Hmm.... I wonder...
And last but certainly not least are all my other friends, online and in real life. From blood relatives like my mother and my nephew to chosen family like my wife and my stepkids, my family needs me and loves me and tries to take care of me whenever I'll give in and let them. And then my online friends, scattered across the world, who care about an obscure lippy fat bitch from Canada.
My trans sisters, who know and share my struggles living life as a woman with a penis.
My cis galpals, who treat me no different than any other woman.
My handful of guy friends with more than half a brain, who don't dismiss my experience or treat me like I exist to service them.
From uppity bloggers and celebrities to every day folks and family.
From black and white to hispanic and asian to mixed race like myself.
From gay and straight to bi and asexual.
From Monogamous to poly to perpetually single.
From Christian to Aethiest and agnostic to paegan.
I have friends all over the world of all types, frome every race, religion, creed, background and belief. And every single one of them loves me for me. Not for what I can do for them, not for anything they can get from me, and not for any silly fantasy image of me. JUST for me, the person I am, as is, warts and all.
I'm no supermodel, I never claimed otherwise. I'm also not near as ugly as internet trolls want me to believe I am so they can boost their self-esteem in exchange for mine.
All of the people listed above think I'm pretty and kind and wonderful and terribly rare even when I'm down and think I'm fat and ugly and worthless. Famous, non-famous, religious to aethiest, black white, purple or pink, it doesn't matter. They are all my friends and my family. And they love me and I love them, and if THEY think I'm beautiful, creative, kind, rare and wonderful, well...
The obnoxious opinion of some snotty loser trying to give himself an ego boost by hurting strangers really holds no water with me anymore. It used to, I admit it. I used to care far too much what anonymous assholes online thought of me. I wasted two years once arguing with a super troll named SuperGayHomo who used to revel in getting under my skin by stealing pictures of my anatomy and putting it online on his buddy's server where he knew it would never get taken down. And I stupidly let him and his idiot buddies goad me into long flame wars defending my life and existance against morons who only wanted to laugh at how angry I got.
But a funny thing happened.
I finally figured out after near two decades online who was really worth listening to.
So sorry @misterchuck719, but you are, as they say on the interwebz, EPIC fail.
Thanks for playing but to quote Weird Al, you don't even get a copy of our home game!