In general, I think, human beings are happiest at table when they are very young, very much in love or very alone.

M. F. K. Fisher

Hating yourself can be a drag sometimes.

When you feel like an embarrassment to your friends, family, and especially to those you date, (and before you scream “I’m not embarrassed by you!” remember; although feelings aren’t true, they’re always real), you tend to distance yourself from those you love. The feeling of embarrassment might be in my head. It might be a little story my brain makes up in its ongoing crusade of self-harm (that little scamp’s always coming up with the silliest of hijinks!). Regardless, the feeling is there, floating around my face, like gnats in the summer. And, like gnats in the summer, no matter how many times I swipe it away, it always seems to come back.

The gnats will say (in their little gnatty voices), “You see there? You’re not being invited because you are an embarrassment!”

*swipe*

“Ope, did you notice that? They posted about a wonderful party time they had with someone else on social media. Why didn’t they post about the amazing party time you had with them?”

*SWipe*

“Oh no. Look at that. They cancelled hanging out again? Can’t you take a hint?”

*SWIPE*

“You’re nothing.”

*two-handed SWIPE!!*

Sometimes, through their sheer tenacity, the gnats start to make sense, and I’ll look in the mirror and see what they’re talking about. I’m an embarrassment to myself. When the gnats make sense, then it’s time to do something about it. Time to shake them off.

So what’s a girl to do? Disprove those gnat bastards! Show them they’re wrong. That way, I’m showing me I’m wrong about them; or rather, showing my brain it’s wrong about me. Or wait, I’m showing my brain it’s wrong about the gnats? Goddammit, I’m showing something it’s wrong about something and that should help. Right?

But how does one disprove a swarm of gnats? Well, let’s put their embarrassment hypothesis to the test. Let’s go out to dinner baby! All by myself!

1 PICKING THE RIGHT EATERY

I chose a Pizza joint because I’m a fancy bitch. For my first time beating the gnats, I wanted something simple; something that’s hard to get wrong. After all, there’s the old adage: “Pizza is like fucking; even when it’s hot, there’s a pepperoni involved.” – or something like that.

So I decided on a local pizza place here in Pig’s Clit, Missouri called Maso Pizza Bar, a quaint little bar and grill on the east side of town. It’s near the highway which makes it the perfect place for coming from work in a desperate last-ditch endeavor to fight off going home because that’s where the gnats live.

2 INTERIOR

The inside is small, even for a bar and grill; some booths along a wall, a few tables in the center, and a bar on the other side. Like a good Rusty Trombone video, the first thing I notice is all the wood; a running theme for restaurants here in the Ozarks; logs, sticks, and branches used for decor and practicality like stools, tables, and the bar. Also, a few bull skulls hanging about in a transparent attempt to show off how “country” it is; something this entire town is guilty of. There are even bull skulls at our Best Buy! I’m just kidding (or am I?). The whole theme collided with the amazing Reggae version of Metallica’s “Unforgiven” blasting through the speakers. Oh, you think that was a fucking joke? Think again bitch.

As with most public places, my eyes usually dart around to see who’s staring at the queer-o-sexual that just walked in. It’s a habit I need to break. It’s also a holdover from when I started my transition years ago. Thanks to hormones, laser hair removal, changes to my body (boobs!), and makeup, most folks don’t notice. Besides, it’s not like I’m secretly hiding something. I’m just a normal, depressed, scared, anxious, self-loathing, abhorrent, fat, funny, fallible, beautiful!, intelligent, imperfect woman trying to live her life.

No stares today.

3 EXPERIENCE/FOOD

I sit myself because fuck the system; also there’s a sign that says I can. The server is nice and gets me water (does she know I’m trans? Is she just “being nice”?). She also hands me a menu.

Like most eateries, I judge all their food items based on the quality of the best appetizer known to humankind: Fried Pickles. I don’t know if they’re exclusively a midwestern thing, but by god, if you’ve never tried them, then you must! If the fried pickles aren’t good, then I know none of the food will be good. Oh, and I order a pizza. Pepperoni. And a Blue Hawaiin cocktail; the best drink in the known universe.

The food is good (the pickles were amazing!), but that’s not the point of my visit. The point is – actually what was the point? How does this help me with feeling that I’m constantly an embarrassment? Maybe I was just super anxious and turned to the thing that seems to always be there for me: food.

But let’s try shall we?

4 RESULTS

One of the hardest things to accept from friends, family, and those I love is sincerity. It’s something I’ve discussed before, but once I made my depression public with this very blog, I feel I can’t trust anyone that I know on a personal level. Does that sound weird? It feels less like they care and more like they are “just keeping tabs” on me.

She’s been very quiet lately; again. What is it this time? Job? Family? Or the ever-present, ever-ongoing issues with being in love? Jesus, I’m tired of this. “Hey, are you okay? Wanna talk about it?” She always says no, thank god.

I don’t want to talk about it, I’d rather write. It’s what I do! And it brings me joy.

Now, strangers are different, especially in the midwest. Strangers will let you know what they think of you, like toddlers (“wow you’re a lot bigger than other people”). However, unlike toddlers, strangers don’t use their dirty mouths, they use their dirty eyes. The eyes don’t lie. I’m not trying to be one of those dipshits who think they can infer the intentions and personalities of people by “reading faces” and “seeing micro-expressions”. Anyone who says they can should look in the mirror and see if they can catch the micro-expressions on their own lying fucking face. But I have a long history of people staring at me; it even predates being trans. I was fat, Hispanic, self-conscience, and very insecure as a child. Actually, I’m still all those things, but I’m Trans now too! (outwardly anyway. Technically, I’ve always been trans.) All these layers make for a very aware-of-her-surroundings Kiko Cake (with warm icing. . . . go ahead, take a bite). I’ve been stared at my whole life.

It’s why I’m always hyper-aware of what I look like, how I carry myself, how I sit down (and get up!), how I walk, how I run, how I laugh, how I smile, how I cry, how I eat (even reaching for the fork!), how I dress, how I talk, how I tilt my head when I’m confused, how I squint when I don’t believe you, how I dance, how I touch, how I hold hands, how I fuck, and the list goes on from there. Every one of those actions, plus countless more, I do on a very conscious, very deliberate, and very intentional level.

Always on my mind.

But wait there’s more! I’m also always observing how my actions affect those around me. Let’s say you and I are having a conversation. While trying (and failing) to listen to how your week has been, I watch your eyes, I watch your hands, I watch your posture, your arms as they accentuate the details of your story; but wait, what are my hands doing? What is my posture like? Am I slumping? Do I seem disinterested in what you’re saying? I swear I’m not. Have I been looking around too much? What the fuck have you been talking about anyway? I just want to go. Please let me go. “Wow, sounds like an interesting week! Excuse me.” Walk away. Careful how you walk though; don’t let them know you’re an embarrassment.

It’s fucking exhausting guys.

Where was I?

Oh yeah! Strangers!

On this night at Maso Pizza Bar, no one stared. And the fried pickles were good.

Success? Maybe. It’s baby steps, y’know? I’m a work in progress. And so are you. It’s something we have in common. It’s what makes us human. I guess going on a date with myself turned out to be a pretty good experience after all. I should go out on dates with myself more often, as long as I don’t do something stupid like take myself on a gondola ride in a pitiful desperate attempt to impress me by being “romantic” (sure sounds like me though). Guys, if you wanna impress a gal like me, just bring a good conversation and make me laugh. It’s harder than you think.

So dinner night with myself was good. I learned that, perhaps, a lot of things are just in my head.

Sex was good too!

– Kiko