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.

Just a reminder that even after all these decades …


Just a reminder that even after all these decades I still get deliberately misgendered, and collecting the double prize of added racism is a reality in Berlin. And this was in one of the biggest hospitals. People wonder why I get so angry explaining this pandemic is a whole other level of risk for trans people and POC.


Right, well, that’s ruined my plans for the forthcoming days. I’d got all ready to go climbing tomorrow as it seems finally the grey grey greyness and damp hovering-around-zero has broken, and I was itching to get back on my local wall and yes, also rehearsing today, and even going out to Unbezahlbar tonight. Ruined. Ruined and awash in blood. My blood, that is.

Fucking cleaning.

And how fucking sharp can a kitchen sink be? Really, who’d ‘a thought a kitchen sink could slice through a finger like a gritty butcher’s knife? Conceptualise a kitchen sink in your mind, and the words ‘razor sharp’ don’t spring to mind as a synonym, do they? No one ever said, “Sharp as a kitchen sink”, or “Cut like a hot kitchen sink through butter”. But oh, yes, Frances will find the one scalpel-like edge on said kitchen sink and attempt to sever fingertip from rest of said finger.

And for a small cut it really went totally Slayer Raining Blood from a Lacerated Sky just everywhere. New shoes are probably required because one of them was, “I’m a Sponge! Drinking Blood from a Lacerated Sky”, and I think that doesn’t come out in the wash.

Anyway, I went all “First Aid! Compress the wound! Where’s a fucking bandage? Ah these clean underwear will do until I find the bandages!”, then found the bandages and soaked them in blood – it’s comically difficult to do anything dextrous when it’s your left index finger that’s doing an impression of a tap and you happen to be left-handed. Then had a look, all the while swear-laughing, and it was grinning right back at me, and I thought, “Ooo! That’s going to need tailoring.”

So I jumped on my bike and rode to the hospital.

And took a book because I was expecting to be there a while, you know, emergency rooms tend to be long, drawn-out affairs. But I barely got through one paragraph and was off to get taken care of, by two very lovely and friendly doctors.

I’ve been watching a lot of Vin Diesel films lately, and they get bashed and shot and barely a spritz of the red stuff, and yet here was I, half an hour or more later and my finger was still intent on painting any near surface red. It was leaking like the mouth of a drowned person exhaling water. Well, it was probably not more than a couple of tablespoons worth, but it was attempting the elevator scene from The Shining for all it was worth.

So it was washed, and examined and decided a sewing kit was needed, and fuck do anæsthetic injections hurt. I got to lie down, even though I wanted to be all Vin and get stitched up without anaesthetic and swigging on beer. Lucky the anæsthetic only worked properly on half my finger so I got to act all stoic while the tiniest of tiny needles bored through the most superficial depths of my finger tip and I just went “Ow! Fuck!”.

So now my finger looks like a white clown’s nose with its dressing, and has Four! stitches. And hopefully no infection because it was nasty dirty what I was cleaning when my kitchen sink went all meat cleaver on me. Which I had to finish reassembling the drainpipes on when I got home; it smelt like a swampy trench down those pipes.

And no climbing with this finger for at least a couple of weeks either.

Not to worry, I have Vin Diesel films. I’m watching The Fast and The Furious series in reverse, which I think would be a good name for one of them, “Fast Reverse”, and they do all their stunts going backwards, and have swapped over their rear difs so they have five reverse gears, and pop their back wheels when they hit the nitro doing 300 on the Autobahn.

rotten and minus some neurons

Lucky I’m not a Calvinist or I’d know for sure the last few days earthly torment was God’s punishment for having too much fun last week. Personally I suspect a kind of annual Bird Flu or SARS, as it was almost this time last year I found myself going from fairly normal to hospital in a matter of hours. Oh sickness, malady, feebleness of my body, what a crappy few days it’s been.

Normally I’d say, “Hence absence of blog”, but you all know how tardy I’ve been at this lately.

Anyway. Much expectorating of lungs and tightness of jaw, so … Tuberculosis. Or SARS. I thought maybe Ebola but my viscera didn’t seem to liquidate fast enough. However in keeping with the lucky small fraction who survive that virus, my brain has been drastically reduced. Mostly I is zombie. I have to think to walk. … So … this is what it’s like to be stupid … or average.

Finished Harry Potter though, and cried. My favourite is still Prisoner of Azkaban, but Deathly Hallows is really very good. I feel I should read them all one after the other now.

Lots of profoundly odd dreams populated with close friends I’m attributing to flu hallucinations. I’ve been writing down the more disturbing, striking or just naggingly remembered ones since the start of the year, a little collection of alptraum.

陈莉莉 chen lili – the face of plastic surgery

Someone said to me, “lesbians are so 90s; trannys are where it’s at now”, and I thought, “eeeee!!! once again I am fashion!”. Anyway, 陈莉莉 Chen Lili, China’s transsexual answer to Korea’s Harisu is now the “image ambassador” of the Plastics Division at a hospital in Fuzhou. I guess that’s in reply to Harisu advertising UFT tampons last year. She was also doing some karaoke at “相约‘三八’ 见证美丽” “meet on women’s day to witness beauty”… yeah, the translation ain’t witnessing no beauty, but it’s mostly about images of 变性美女, that’s transsexual beauty to all you ugly non-fashion people. I thought, “it shoud be meee!!!” but somehow I think the only Ambassador For Plastics Division gig I’ll get is for those tiny plastic chairs outside the noodle shop. Maybe for plastic chopsticks…