The world has gone mad. I’ve heard we must be nice to Nonbinary people. This means I would have to know what a nonbinary person is. What a who? I’ve researched a couple of online sites. It looks like if you are young, say no more than 30, maybe 25, you could be a candidate. You could be male, which would mean I am offending you under this category, or you could be female, I am offending someone again. For goodness sake. I can’t ask you what you were born as. I can’t ask you what toilet you use. More offence. What about me though, and all those folk like me? I’ve got a right to know who I share a toilet with. Maybe I don’t need to know your entire gene pool, but at the very least I want to know if the person in the next cubicle is a man. I’m not saying that every man who would possibly be sharing a toilet is a rapist or mass murderer, but I have personal things I don’t want to share with a strange man. As I rummage in my handbag for loose change for the Tampax machine I then hear it rattling inside, I pull out the drawer and hey presto! This would inspire sympathetic glances from the sisterhood, a silent knowledge, an understanding why I’m clutching my side, why I’m looking a bit pale faced. I don’t see why a bloke in a dress should get a ringside view.
I hear about gender fluid, what’s this? You make up your mind in the morning how feminine you’ll be or how masculine you want to be on any given day. Whatever whenever? Fine, that’s your prerogative, but don’t complain about being born in the wrong body, don’t whinge to me about having a penis or a clitoris, life is a game of cards, you play with the deck you got. I don’t mean to be harsh. I know some people have really bad times working out what they are, but if it’s not sexual, the hard time would be about something else. Some people want to change gender but once they are the gender they think they should be, they will be insulted to be called a particular gender. The whole argument falls back on itself. Some people will never be happy. I struggle to understand why a man would think being a woman would be an easier life. My self and fellow sisters have hormones raging through us in every cycle of our life. As mentioned previously, we have monthly problems. Could I be a man for a week every month please? Could I not be menopausal this year please, I have a wedding to attend? Hormones. We seem to be able to pump ourselves with them at our fancy. I am sorry to burst anyone’s bubble, but no amount of chemical hormones are going to supply you with working ovaries. No amount of internet images of pregnant bearded men are going to grace you with a womb either. Suck it up boys. What if an illness like cancer has raped me of my ovaries, womb, breasts. Am I going to feel less feminine? Yes, without doubt. Would being embraced by a movement that would like to be all shades of sexuality make me feel better? No. I would still be bereft. I would never be the whole of my former self. When you assault me with an LGBTNonBinary and whoever else leaflet at me as I am walking up my local high street some Saturday afternoon, I might want to slap you. I won’t, I don’t like violence, but when you react, my gay man, transitional female, cross dresser or whoever you are that day, are you going to slap like a woman or punch like a man? I’d like to know. If you were to put money on a winner, I bet you would opt for the one born with male genitalia. I am going to leave this. Park it here. I’ll return to this though. My opinion may change. Surely we all have a view on why there are 71 gender identities on Facebook?
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AuthorI enjoy writing short stories and reading yours. I'm always amazed at where our mind can take us. I think it is therapeutic to let your mind wander off and free itself of personal drudgery. Archives
March 2020
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