Someone Saturday
Gilroy always knew there was a warrior buried deep within his person, writhing to be free of the soft, pocked body that imprisoned it. He would have these glorious dreams of riding into open fields, naked but for a loincloth and wielding a mighty scimitar. In the dreams he know not the fear of his daily life, and had the singular purpose of mowing down as many visogoths as possible before night fell. He never flinched or cowered at the sight of the raving men, whose eyes bugged with murderous conviction and frothed with zeal. There was something so true about the man on that battlefield, his beard flecked with meat, dirt and blood, that Gilroy felt it matched the same passion and certainty a transgender person feels about their true nature. If only Gilroy could go under the knife the augment the weedy, terrible man he saw in the mirror into the fierce warrior he knew himself to be. This desire, this need, haunted Gilroy in every human interaction, in each mistake. It grew especially strong when he would find himself walking into rooms not knowing why he came in them.
"Torvic would know why he came in the room." He would tell himself, fumbling his assuredly empty pockets for the sixth time, (Torvic was the name he gave the warrior side.) Torvic would have the clarity of thought, the efficiency and poise of a jungle cat. He would never misplace his jogging sneakers or his can-opener.
Gilroy worked as a sub-auditor in a meager state-run firm. His days consisted of surfing and editing his historical fiction wikis, eating crackers and tuna fish, doing the occasional piece of auditing and daydreaming of his life as Torvic. He could never keep his eyes fully open, and his crotch always seemed abnormally hot and itchy, (in so much that he was forced to try all sort of veiled methods to relieve it: slight seat adjustments, alternative underwear options and strategic manual "airings" with a free hand. Some days would get so bad he would excuse himself to the restroom, where he would strip down in a stall, take off the damp undergarment and stuff it down a pant leg, spending the rest of the day in a freeing commando state, sans the sad smelly bundle hugging his left shin.)
Gilroy's crotch and warrior daydreams aside, he lead a relatively happy life, never doing much that required a struggle. He tried pottery for a time but found the feel of the clay on his hands unnerving, and his instructor had a nasty habit of nodding knowingly was she saw something she liked.
What's with that? he would think to himself as she made it round the room, pausing only to look and do the stupid nodding.
Often he had unwholesome dreams about the instructor. He would of course be enveloped in the simple mind of Torvic in the dreams, but it left him feeling queazy and unsettled upon waking.
Today's Drawing (inspired by the word "Carouse" from MW's word of the day. It means to drink heavily or participate in drunken revelry.)
Today's "365" Project (Decorate a cookie or a cake)
"Home Cake"
.JPG)
Gilroy always knew there was a warrior buried deep within his person, writhing to be free of the soft, pocked body that imprisoned it. He would have these glorious dreams of riding into open fields, naked but for a loincloth and wielding a mighty scimitar. In the dreams he know not the fear of his daily life, and had the singular purpose of mowing down as many visogoths as possible before night fell. He never flinched or cowered at the sight of the raving men, whose eyes bugged with murderous conviction and frothed with zeal. There was something so true about the man on that battlefield, his beard flecked with meat, dirt and blood, that Gilroy felt it matched the same passion and certainty a transgender person feels about their true nature. If only Gilroy could go under the knife the augment the weedy, terrible man he saw in the mirror into the fierce warrior he knew himself to be. This desire, this need, haunted Gilroy in every human interaction, in each mistake. It grew especially strong when he would find himself walking into rooms not knowing why he came in them.
"Torvic would know why he came in the room." He would tell himself, fumbling his assuredly empty pockets for the sixth time, (Torvic was the name he gave the warrior side.) Torvic would have the clarity of thought, the efficiency and poise of a jungle cat. He would never misplace his jogging sneakers or his can-opener.
Gilroy worked as a sub-auditor in a meager state-run firm. His days consisted of surfing and editing his historical fiction wikis, eating crackers and tuna fish, doing the occasional piece of auditing and daydreaming of his life as Torvic. He could never keep his eyes fully open, and his crotch always seemed abnormally hot and itchy, (in so much that he was forced to try all sort of veiled methods to relieve it: slight seat adjustments, alternative underwear options and strategic manual "airings" with a free hand. Some days would get so bad he would excuse himself to the restroom, where he would strip down in a stall, take off the damp undergarment and stuff it down a pant leg, spending the rest of the day in a freeing commando state, sans the sad smelly bundle hugging his left shin.)
Gilroy's crotch and warrior daydreams aside, he lead a relatively happy life, never doing much that required a struggle. He tried pottery for a time but found the feel of the clay on his hands unnerving, and his instructor had a nasty habit of nodding knowingly was she saw something she liked.
What's with that? he would think to himself as she made it round the room, pausing only to look and do the stupid nodding.
Often he had unwholesome dreams about the instructor. He would of course be enveloped in the simple mind of Torvic in the dreams, but it left him feeling queazy and unsettled upon waking.
Haiku of the Day:
Clear air over mind
smooth to the pulmonary
tickles the gullet
Today's "365" Project (Decorate a cookie or a cake)
"Home Cake"
.JPG)
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