snow

No-one in my family will admit that my sister has an eating disorder. It’s just how things are with us, I think. Once I had a therapist ask who I’d phone in a crisis – I like that, “crisis”, that little verbal sleight-of-hand that both covers and implies all the falling apart, bullet in glass, vomit and blood awfulness that a crisis actually involves. I said I’d phone the Samaritans.

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So I’m at work, and my boss is making tranny jokes again

I’m at work, and my boss is making tranny jokes again. She’s sitting at the bar, drunk, and over the general commotion of a busy restaurant, I keep catching fragments of her conversation. Stray phrases drift over to the corner where I stand, polishing the cutlery – comments about chicks with dicks, about men in dresses, about traps, about trannies.

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