💉2️⃣🦠0️⃣

Heaps big thank you to everyone* at Corona-Impfzentrum Flughafen Tegel who made the whole process of having some mRNA stuck in my deltoid for the second time simple and fun. And again, especially to all the Brown and Black staff, young and old, who stepped up to do this job and were cheerful and helpful all the way through — even when you were bored and tired in the heat outside. I see you. I wish Berlin was you all the time.

Heaps big thank you again to Dasniya who messaged me mid–April and said, “Because reasons, I can have two people close to me vaccinated. Want some?” And like the druggie I am, I said “Duh! Yes!”

*unlike last time

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German Whip: Audi RS3 Sportback 8V Goodwood Green

Seen on Framstraße, Neukölln. Entirely for the green. Truth I am not much into German autos post the boxy tight era, buuuut … that green. In the pushing-30° of a warm and grotty Berlin summer … ok if it was mine, I’d swap out those rims, but that green? I’d have the brake rotors painted the same colour. “Guys better show respect if they see man pullin up in a TT”

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German Whip: Volkswagen Golf Mk7 R

Seen off Sonnenallee, repping late–’90s / early–‘00s JDM import culture with those decals on the C-pillar and that very German tuner hoonage paint job. Especially love the Autobahn + Sound System sticker on the window and the acid green disc brakes behind the TEC GT6 Evo rims. “See man driving a German Whip.”

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3 Years and Done

I got an email from my Steuerberater yesterday. He wanted to let me know that after much back-and-forth for the second time, the Finanzamt had accepted my 2019 surgery as an expense against my income. So, no horrific tax bill for me, and after three years, I’m done with all that. (Unless of course the transphobic gods of German bureaucracy decide to non-consensually buttfuck me in the future for some extremely obtuse exception of German bureaucracy.)

Three years. The whole ‘earn mad cash get surgery’ process took less than a year — less than a year on my fourth attempt since my teens at stacking that paper — but the consequences of that took the extra two. Dealing with specific Finanzamt consequences, I mean. Which should serve as an object lesson for cis people in demonstrating how for trans people everything moves on a much slower time and everything involves shoving against immovable legal, medical, social, political, financial institutions and processes.

I celebrated the best way I know, having Type 2 fun. Type 2’s the fun where you suffer at the time and ask yourself, “Why am I doing this?” and only later it magically becomes ‘Fun!’ (Celebrating like this mainly because I don’t have a favourite sex worker on speed dial, otherwise I’d be sorted for a different, Type 1 fun.)

Massive, unending thanks and love to my cherished ones, Dasniya, Gala, Katrin, and Vass who turned up for me during all this 🖤. The trans femme goddesses and deities saw you and don’t forget.

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Last Blowjob

I went to see the Gemäldegalerie’s Spätgotik exhibition yesterday. First time going to an exhib in over a year, first time voluntarily inside a venue with other people in a over a year, first blah etc. First hanging out with someone new in physical space in a heap of time also.

And it’s medieval art and we were checking out Master of the Housebook’s Last Supper and I was all “Northern Germanic Gothic is the shit.” And she was all “lol blowjob.”

Pretty sure that’s not what Staatliche Museen zu Berlin gave me a press pass to come up with.

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24 Hour Nürburgring

The best sound is after the sharp right at Aremberg, under the bridge at the start of Fuchsröhre and all the way down to the bottom of the Nordschleife at Breidscheid, engines and turbos spooled up and redlining. Better than the long straight of Döttinger-Höhe. That corner is where the Nürburgring starts for me, into the forest and a tight, narrow winding road with no runoff that goes on and on. I feel the velocity and get buffeted by braking and acceleration just watching laps. And the racing. All that plus terrifying high-speed passes, weather that changes in five minutes and across the 24 kilometre track. My safe space is 250 km/h down the fox hole at 24 Hour Nürburgring.

I would have watched it all night, but like last year it got red-flagged. Fog and rain and not the kind of visibility for maximum hoonage. 24 hours turned into a 3–hour sprint. And the two commentators living their best bogan uncle selves. Something about Scandinavian Flick, keto diet, taking the apex with the shopping trolley, beer bottles at the back balancing out the weight, I don’t believe you were going to the fruit and veggies, it’s beer and chips for you, broken struts, broken steering racks, making the straight race line between spun–out Audi and Armco on slippery wet grass, cutting and shaving tread into slicks to make one last set of tires.

I love the sound and noise and velocity and can smell the engines and brake pads and metal and fluids and hear the ratchets and air guns and feel the crew lying on their backs contorting themselves into the machinery and the whole process of attrition, people and engineering being worn down over those long high-speed hours, this is art.

💉1️⃣🦠0️⃣

Heaps big thank you to everyone* at Corona-Impfzentrum Flughafen Tegel who made the whole process of having some mRNA stuck in my deltoid simple and kinda fun. Especially to all the Brown and Black staff, young and old, who stepped up to do this job and were cheerful and helpful all the way through — even when you were bored and tired outside. I see you.

Heaps big thank you also to Dasniya who messaged me mid–April and said, “Because reasons, I can have two people close to me vaccinated. Want some?” And like the druggie I am, I said “Duh! Yes!”

*Everyone except the gammon Alman who misgendered me twice, I called him out and he did it again. I was wearing a dress, I know exactly what you were doing. Swear to God bro, you will shit through haemorrhoids the rest of your life and your dick will shrivel when you try to beat off to my trans sisters.

Me in Yusra Magazine #9

A while back, late-January this year, Vass asked me to write something for Yusra Magazine, for the big Trans Futures edition. I said, “Yaaah!” and continued to do nothing till pretty damn close to the deadline. When I whined to them, and in that strange way writing sometimes happens with me, threw down 1100 words in the middle of the night. Five revisions and four days later, along with a whole bunch of notes (’cos we gotta differentiate between a Mazda and a Boeing 767) is what got sent to them. And they translated it. Which I’m mad happy about, ’cos there’s nothing like having someone you know and trust (and share a true deep love for class hoonage) to do the tricky work of translating.

Real paper version arrives after Easter.
“Wait what, Vass, Easter?”
“Greek Easter, chica, what we have here in Athens. We run by the orthodox.”

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Maghrib

The full moon marks halfway for Ramadan. Two weeks down, two to go.