Read the Even Finer Print

Now, I've been on testosterone for approximately 6 months. Yup, it's been 6 months already. I'm happy and I actually feel "normal" and complete when I have my injections. However, there's a few bugs and kinks about this.

The one that's most noticeable? Well, I'd say that would be the growth of a certain part that's hiding in a certain place, if ya know what I mean. Oh yes, my friends, I'm talkin' about what you think I'm talkin' about. And, you guessed it, it feels weird and it's quite hard to get used to. Not only does it feel weird whenever I go to the bathroom, lately it feels weird even when sit. Biological guys probably never go through this since they were born with something between their legs, regardless of the size, mind you. And speaking of, I hope you don't think I have an actual "schlong". Trust me, if that happens I'm probably gonna be too amazed and excited to sit and write about it. You'd find me peeing in the nearest bush or pretty much anywhere I could pee standing.

No, I have a simple, small growth. Nothing too sci-fi or weird. But it does make one wonder what's gonna happen as you keep using testosterone. I certainly have no idea what to expect but I'm curious to find out. Well, that's all for now but I'll keep documenting major changes. Which reminds me, I forgot to say I now have a (weird) almost full beard. I'm a pretty happy camper.

Stay frosty.

This Blög and I

It's been a REALLY long time since I came around. It's been a REALLY long time but (hopefully) I'm back in town and this time I'm not leaving.

I did take quite the "break" there, huh? Well it's more than just one reason why I stopped writing but it's a long, boring story. The point is I'm back and re-inspired thanks to a few changes in my life. So, get the popcorn and the soda because I have more to say.

Stay frosty...or just stay...or whatever.

Read the fine print

Everybody knows the fine print is where the real info is. Unfortunately for me, testosterone does not come with fine print. Yes, there are many well-known side-effects listed and places to find what will probably happen when you take it. But it also says that there's no way to know EXACTLY how testosterone will affect you because everyone's body processes it differently. So you're basically running a "mini experiment" on yourself. I'm currently running a mini experiment on myself.

I started taking testosterone about a month ago, with just one shot a month. And I recently had my second shot. Let me tell ya, those side-effects are REAL. Unfortunately, I'm only getting what could be classified as the "bad" or "negative" side-effects first. I still haven't seen any of the "good" ones take effect on me. And these "bad" side-effects are pretty annoying, ya know. I've been getting very moody, and I still live with my parents so you know what that means. I recently shared in one of the LGBTQ support groups I visit, that I had one day gotten unbelievably angry at A PIECE OF LASAGNA. Even today, I got angry at my mother for making two grocery lists just because she "didn't like the way the first one looked". Obviously, I tapped into my inner man and thought to myself "My God! Women are insane! What the fuck is wrong with them?!" but proceeded to walk to the car quietly without yelling at my clearly insane mother. I've actually caught myself on the verge of screaming "WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?! DO YOU ENJOY DRAINING WHAT LITTLE PEACE AND SANITY I HAVE LEFT?!" and then I remember she gave me life, a place to live, food, blah blah blah. So yes, testosterone tends to make you a bit more aggressive than you really are, but you don't really turn into this Hulk menace who terrorizes the entire city. You don't go on a puppy-killing, candy-stealing, money-robbing, sexual harassment spree. Not even close. However, you DO get moody and emotional from time to time. You DO get days where you could just eat a whole zebra (oh yeah, I just quoted Simba from Lion King). You DO "eye-fuck" pretty much anything with a pulse. And you DO get nasty break outs all over your face and some parts of your body. But that's enough of this negative-ness. Let's get into the positive stuff before I scare you off.


I started writing this post about a week ago and I've notice a little bit of change since then. I shall elaborate. Ahem. I have officially noticed an itty, bitty change in my voice. Excuse me while I celebrate: AAAAAWWWW  YYYYEEEEAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!. As I was saying, my voice has gotten just a tiny bit deeper and less annoying to my ears. It's not a HUGE change, but it's definitely a change. I also noticed a bit of change on my facial hair. This is harder for me to confirm because I've ALWAYS had facial hair, it's in my genes and I can't help it. I'm used to having facial hair and I honestly can't tell if it's just my imagination or if a new pattern is arising. But since I'm all about the positive vibes now, I'll assume it's a real change. So finally, after an array of annoying "negative" effects, the grass has turned greener, the sun is starting to rise, and I have my copy of Born This Way DELUXE Version. All is right in the world. Sort of...




Stay frosty.


*NOTE: As you may have noticed from my previous posts, I am sarcastic and I tend to put A LOT of humor into these posts. Therefore, any remark about me hating my mother, or wanting to ship her to Antartica is NOT TRUE. Wait, I never said I wanted to ship her to Antartica, right? Oops. Anyways, I'm a huge "mama's boy" so don't get yerr thongs in a twist and just enjoy the humor.


No mothers were harmed in the making of this post.

OH MY RA...JA!

Hello again. Now, usually, I'm quite witty and organized and put together in here, but just for tonight you will have to bear with me being psychotic and freaking the fuck out, K? Allllrighty then. You are wondering why I'm freaking out, yes? Well, you see, I just got home from a place called Parliament House, here in Orlando. What happened there? Bear with me now........................................................................I FUCKING MET FUCKING RAJA FROM RUPAUL'S FUCKING DRAG RACE!!!!!!!!!!! Now, if you have no idea what I'm blabbering about, PLEASE get yo ass over to LogoTV's website and watch the ENTIRE 3rd season of Rupaul's Drag Race and THEN keep reading. Ahem, as I was saying, I fucking met Raja at Parliament House tonight. Why is that such a big deal? First of all, I'm a wimp. A pussy. A scaredycat. And I had to get up on a stage to take a picture with him. This scared me quite a bit because I'm painfully shy, I have self esteem issues, etc, etc, etc. Second, because of what Raja means to me personally.

Some people there were just waiting to take a picture with two fabulous drag queens. Some were there to take a picture with the latest winner of Rupaul's Drag Race. Well, my friends, I was there because I wanted-- nay -- I NEEDED to meet someone that gave me strength, motivation, and inspiration, and that had made it. Through a bunch of shit to get were they were. I needed to look at his face from inches away, touch his hand,  hear his voice, and see that he was real. See that he was not made up by LogoTV or Rupaul. I needed a piece of my dream to become my reality. No, my dream is not to be a fabulous, fierce drag queen. I'm talking about my dream to make it big. I LOVED watching Raja on TV every week, turning it out, being fierce and everything. But what REALLY got to me, what made me say "This bitch is def on my Inspirations list." was those few, powerful moments when Raja talked about wanting to win for every little boy out there that didn't fit in, about how it's OK to go against the grain and be different, and love yourself. That's the big deal. That's why I'm freaking the fuck out. I met someone that embodies what I feel and believe in. And let me tell ya, Raja was lookin' FIERCE in that blonde wig. I shall briefly recount my regrettably brief encounter.

OK, so, today I went to dinner with my family for Mother's Day. I had everything planned out. I was gonna have dinner and then bolt outta there ASAP to go see Raja. But alas, plans changed and I ended up at my sister's house after dinner. This was not so unfortunate for I got to see half of the HBO Monster Ball Special. So after that, I went home and I was debating in my mind whether I should still go or not because I was tired and I didn't have anyone to go with. Then I heard Gaga's voice say "Are you kidding me? You better get your ass over there, motherfucker." So I garnered whatever strength and will I had, and I got my ass over there. When I got there, I was nervous because I was alone and I have this paralyzing fear of making a fool of myself when I'm alone. But I stayed and went over to the stage where they had the meet & greet. I must have stared at Raja and that stage for 15 or 20 minutes until I finally said to myself "You did not just come over here to be a fucking pussy. You are doing this. Nothing can stop you! BAHAHAHA!" Yes, I laugh like a maniac inside my head. So I got in line like everyone else, and when I finally get to the stairs before the stage, this person pulls me aside and asks my why I didn't have a bracelet on. I was like "No fucking way. This is it. It's the end. It's over, I'm fucked, I'm going home a loser. Might as well be polite and try to keep going." So I explained that I didn't know blah blah blah blah blah. Miraculously, the person let me stay! Of course, they said "I'll let you stay, but you take the picture and the go." So I was like "FUCK YEAH!!!" in my mind. Then, it was my turn. I had this little PURPLE sticky note with my name, e-mail, and the link to my blog in my hand. I literally had like 1 second to give him the note and tell him to please read my blog because it would mean a lot to me. It was close, but I managed to do it! So I took the picture and IMMEDIATELY gave him the note and told him because I knew I was instantly about to get yanked away. As I was exiting the premises, I couldn't help but chuckle like an idiot and think to myself "OH MY GOD! I MET RAJA! AND HE MAY ACTUALLY READ MY BLOG! HE MAY EVEN FEEL COMPELLED TO E-MAIL ME!" So I got in my car, blasted off to my house to write this post (whilst holding back tears) and sat down in front of my computer, dizzy with sleepiness yet hyper with excitement and pride for what happened tonight. So there ya go. That little girl boy from Puerto Rico who was brave, strong and fearless, is slowly but surely resurfacing. I just hope that someday, I can be someone's Raja, and then ultimately, someone's Lady Gaga. Dream big or go home, people.

P.S. Raja, if you're reading this, I want you to know that I know your real name ain't Raja, I know it's Sutan. And more importantly, I hope to see you in drag when you're in your 80's, turning it out at some retirement home here in Florida. And thank you for being you and being brave for people like me.

Stay frosty.

When in Rome, do like the French do

Yes, when in Rome, do like the French do. Why? Well, maybe the Romans aren't right about absolutely everything. I mean, they're human, they're bound to make mistakes. And what if you just disagree with the Romans? What if you feel more like the French? What the fuck am I blabbering about now? I'll tell ya.

As you know, for those of you who have read my blog from the start, my inspiration/idol is Lady Gaga, and recently Adam Lambert. So what I mean by the title and the monologue over thurr is that just because the people that motivate and inspire you do certain things or think a certain way or have certain beliefs, it doesn't mean you have to agree and follow in their footsteps. By now you're supposed to have figured out Gaga and Adam are my Romans and I'm the French dude. Yes, they're successful, yes, they're superstars. But they didn't exactly go through the industry "squeaky clean". They both have openly talked about using drugs. And I ain't talkin' bout having an extra teaspoon of cough syrup. I'm talkin' bout real drugs, street drugs, trippy things, things that could get you jailed. They've also talked about sexual encounters, one-night stands, etc. You know, the "Sex, Drugs, Rock N Roll lifestyle"? Yeah. Um, I'm a 20 year old virgin who recently discovered the world of gay clubs and has never even overdosed on baby aspirin. I once "stole" one of those Element stickers that come with the t-shirts at Pacsun. I said "stole" because they were just stickers that were attached to the shirts and didn't really have any importance. Anyways, even THAT got me scared enough to never try it again.

So, I guess what I'm trying to say is that just because you admire someone and aspire to be as successful as they are, doesn't mean you have to BE them or do everything they did. Yes, you can love someone and feel inspired and motivated by them and still disagree with things they do, say or believe. Its healthy. You're supposed to have your own mind and be your own person. So what if Lady Gaga can't go a day without doing yoga? You don't have to take up yoga because she does it. It doesn't make you cool or a clone of her. So what if she smokes pot when she writes music? You don't have to. You don't have to drink like a pirate, smoke like a hippie or fuck like a porn star to be successful. It just so happens that the people you look up to do or did at some point.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go watch Spongebob and laugh at ridiculous posts on Tumblr.

Stay frosty.

Check it out Ma, I'm INTER-esting

Hello there, strangers and loyal readers. I come to you with news. Good, bad, awesome? You be the judge, for I shall merely state the facts. Well, maybe I'll throw in my opinion somewhere. Ok, let's get crackin'.

About a week ago, I went to my primary doctor thinking it was just one of those standard visits where you say "Hi, I'm fine. Gimme a lollipop." and go on with your life. Boy was I wrong. Nope, I did not exit the office with a lollipop, folks. I went home with a new item to put on my life menu. You see, my doctor was checking me for the usual stuff when suddenly, he stumbled upon my body/facial hair. He asked me if I was taking testosterone already to which I replied "No." quite disappointed. He kept looking at me and the places I had body hair. When he finished lookin' around, he took the "thingy with the light on the tip" and told me to say "AAAHH". It was then, just as I was opening my mouth, he casually blurted out "You might be INTER-SEXED."  To which I went "AAHH????". Yup, you read right. I might just have a magical penis hidden inside my body. He said the reason he thinks I might be Inter-sex is the amount of body/facial hair I have and how its distributed throughout my body. And I trust the man 'cause I am NOT his first tranny, people. He's one of the few doctors who is very integrated into the LGBTQ community. So, yeah, he knows his stuff. Those are the juicy, curious, interesting, surprising facts.

Now, let us explore my initial reactions to such facts. First of all, WHAT  THE  ACTUAL  FUCK?!. Ahem, now, let us explore my current reactions. To be honest, even though it definitely caught me by surprise and freaked the bejeezuz out of me (yes, two z's), I think this would be a good thing. Not that I ever thought it was bad, 'cause I don't have anything against inter-sex people. But its just something you don't expect to be told about yourself so your natural reaction is, well, my initial reaction. You never think "Hey, maybe I have a secret penis hidden inside me." or "Hey, maybe I have a vagina in here.". Its what some would call "a shocker". So, yeah, I freaked. After freaking came the acceptance and then came the embracing. I don't really care whether I'm trans or inter-sex, I just care about having my body corrected. But the thing about being inter-sex is that my medical insurance might just pay for my surgeries because they might acknowledge inter-sex as an actual condition, opposed to gender dysphoria, which they seem to ignore. The other good, or great thing about it is that I may just have a hidden penis! Yay! This is good because it means they won't have to create something out of nothing. They can use what I have secretly hidden, right? Well, it makes sense in my head. Anyway, this would definitely explain what goes with me and it could just be one of the best things that's ever happened to me. So, again, yay!.

On a different note, I am seriously considering changing my name legally to Pandora Box for obvious reasons. Mama don't know just how special her baby is. I'm starting to develop a high tolerance for shock and surprise. Ain't nothin' out there I ain't seen or heard that'll scare me, mistuh. Preach it, gurl.

Stay frosty ;)

Forget The Truth...I Want That Big Dose Of Bullshit Gaga Talks About

As the title suggests, I'm starting to crave that "big dose of bullshit" Lady Gaga talks about in her interviews and concerts. "Big dose of bullshit? But why? Who am I? What does it all mean? Blah" Well, I'll tell you what I mean. I'm talking about walking around completely DELUSIONAL about yourself, about how great you are and what amazing things you can and WILL accomplish. THAT bullshit. Its bullshit because right now its not the truth. I have to keep trying and going at it until I MAKE IT true. The truth is boring, the lie is better. This is what Gaga talks about. It sounds crazy, therefore, it should work. We all know that crazy people with crazy ideas are the ones that make it and change the world. So, why haven't I made it or changed the world yet? Maybe its because I'm not a 10yr old girl singing a cover of "Born This Way" and playing the piano. Maybe its because I'm not a young boy singing a cover of "Paparazzi" at my school's talent show and playing the piano. Maybe its because I'm not an Italian girl from NY who started playing piano at the age of 4, got early admission to a prestigious music school, dropped out to pursue my dream and went on to become a phenomenon. What? I sound jealous/bitchy/pissed? Nah. I'm simply making an observation of how playing the Goddamn piano almost makes an instant success. After all, it IS the common denominator, right?

***NOTE: This is not a serious post. Do not take it seriously. And yes, I did quote "Easy A" in the beginning.

Stay frosty.

The Fugly Truth

Its been a while since I came around. Its been a while, but I'm back in town. Yes, I have my muse back, if at least for today. So I shall pounce on the opportunity and share some deep, dark, fugly truths that were revealed recently.

Now, as I've said before, I'm living in Orlando so I'm seeing a new psychologist and a new psychiatrist. This new psychologist is great, understanding, compassionate and so forth. He is seeing me regularly and everything was fine and dandy, or so I thought. Apparently, I seemed to be suffering fro the delusion that I was "fine" and that all I needed was to get my damn "permit" to start hormone therapy. In reality, I was waaay more f-ed up in the head than I, or anyone around me, thought. This became crystal clear when my psychologist received my Personality Test results from Arizona. Naturally, he sat me down to talk about said results. Never in my life had I been slapped so hard with the ugly truth or felt so baffled and confused about who I was or how I felt about myself. As he read and explained briefly the results, it was as if I was a passenger in a slow-motion train-wreck. According to the test, I hate myself, I have little self-esteem and what little I do have, I put it, and my self-worth, in the hands of others making it impossible for me to be happy and not care what others think about me. It went on to say I had great, deep feelings of hopelessness, and even suicidal tendencies. Suicidal tendencies?! What the frickin' frack?! It hit me like that first flash of sunlight in the morning. You know, the one that makes you squint and gives you a headache. That was a real eye-opener for me. In fact, the "dark enlightenment" made me have a panic attack as I was driving back home. I could barely think, I felt like the ground disappeared from beneath my feet. The only thing I could think was "What do I have to do? How do I fix this? I don't know what do to!". Well, the first thing I did was make it clear to myself I WAS NOT OKAY, AT ALL. After that it was just taking everything one step at a time instead of focusing on the WHOLE damn picture. First step? I went to the mall, went directly to Hot Topic and bought myself 2 Gaga T-shirts. Step two? Put on my favorite sunglasses, lower my windows and blast The Fame and The Fame Monster all the way home. After that, I had a heartfelt talk with my mom and told her about the test, blah blah blah, fast forward to now.

Today, I'm still not a completely free bitch, but I am very well on my way to becoming one. In fact, I plan on writing a letter to MTV in the hopes of catching their attention enough to give me what they call a "docu-series". I know I can make it. I know I WILL make it. I may have mental and emotional problems to make a trip to the moon and back, but the world has no idea how big a persistent, stubborn motherfucker I am.

Mel, out. Stay frosty.

Are we there yet? This thing is killing me...literally

So, those of you who follow me on Twitter or have held a conversation with me in the last few days and weeks should know by now that I moved from Blythe, CA to Orlando, FL by car...again...for the third time. Needless to say, it was an interesting and unique experience, even though I've traveled pretty much the same roads for the third time in less than 5 years. Yes, there's nothing more magical than driving 3,000 miles with your senior-aged parents and your 17yr old nephew, all whilst going through the transsexual transition, which means I still have boobs and have to wear an incredibly uncomfortable "corset" type thingy called "binder" for the entire trip and have to go the men's bathroom without feeling the "safety" of having an actual penis. This brings me to my first tales from the cross-country trip. How I experienced the trip during my transition.

As I said earlier, I'm going through the stage in my transition where I must wear a binder to flatten my chest, and I also must ALWAYS go to the men's bathroom because I'm going through what they call "Real Life Experience", which means I have to live as man in every aspect of my life. I must do this for AT LEAST one full year before I can get ANY surgeries. So with that in mind, imagine basically living out of your car for 3 days and having to go to those oh-so-charming truck-stop bathrooms where you're accompanied by flies and bugs during your "nature call". Not all the bathrooms where scenes from a M. Night Shyamalan movie, but I have to admit some would scare even Freddy Krueger in HIS dreams. I feared I would inevitably get a yeast infection, especially when one of the bathrooms had EVERY SINGLE TOILET going crazy. Those were fun, for five seconds. The toilets where the ones that flush automatically when they see your ass as you pull your pants up, and boy did they take that seriously. I barely unbuttoned my pants and they were already flushing, and not just your ordinary "Here, let me take your human waste" type of flush, oh no, these were "I WILL SUCK YOU DOWN TO HELL!" type of flushes that WOULD NOT STOP. At first I panicked, but the need to pee was far greater so I went ahead and did it. What I got for my bravery was my ass soaked in toilet water, since they really NEVER stopped flushing. If I had a penis I could have peed from safety without getting my ass wet. And yet, bathrooms weren't the worst part of the trip.

The worst part of the trip, the part that keeps playing over and over in my mind, the thing that wakes me at night and gives me mental, and sometimes emotional, diarrhea, is the fact that at one gas station in Texas the store clerk, whom I shall call “Peggy” for dramatic purposes, called me..."Ma’m". I have played that scene in my mind over a hundred times and can’t seem to find that thing that gave me away. I mean, do all women in Texas wear men’s button down shirts, baggy jeans, have a less than feminine haircut, AND have facial hair? I think not. I think. Who knows, maybe it’s a Texas thing, I don’t know. Anyways, she referred to me as a female. This bothered me because up to that moment, I had the ability to pass as a male in public. Or so I thought. This made me highly insecure for the rest of the trip, and gave me tiny schizophrenic attacks whenever I need to go to the bathroom. “Is anybody going to notice?”, “Will they yell at me?”, “Are they gonna pull my pants down in front of everybody?”, “Can they see my vagina?” These were some of the things floating in my mind during my bathroom breaks. Thanks to Peggy, I now doubt myself incessantly when in public. Yes, I endured much emotional stress throughout the trip, but it doesn’t stop there. I also endured some physical abuse.

Don’t get your undies in a twist, I wasn’t raped, beaten, smacked, spit on, pepper sprayed, run over, shot, tackled, or cut by anyone. I’m talking about physical abuse from wearing the damn binder. Yes, I classify that as physical abuse. Why? Well first of all, because its my blog and I can say whatever I want. Second, because when something is dangerous enough that it comes with a “Don’t-wear-for-more-than-X-ammount-of-hours-or-you’ll-suffer-internal-damages” warning on it, AND interferes with some slightly important bodily functions, like breathing or being able to eat a complete meal, I think it should be considered physical abuse. That’s right; the thing that is supposed to help me can also hurt me. And I had to wear that motherfucker for 3 days straight, from 7 or 8am to 11pm, depending on how long it took us to get to the hotels. By the time we got to the hotel, my torso was marked with those horrible red lines that you get when something is clearly strapped on tight to your body. These things aren’t bras, not even close. Bras hold your boobs up. Binders squash them down to make them less noticeable. Bras only cover your boobs. Binders come in different lengths but even the shortest ones cover your belly, making difficult to breathe, eat and digest. See the difference? Don’t get me wrong, I’m used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy having the life squeezed out of me slowly. Not at all. Nevertheless, they are a necessary evil and until I can have chest reconstruction surgery, I shall have to wear them. Every day. Including Holidays.

To summarize, going through the trip as a transsexual is ten times harder than going through it as a “normal” person. So the next time you go on a road trip, a vacation, or an outing of some sort, if you’re a guy, remember to value your genitals for they are a privilege some of us don’t have but want and need quite desperately. And also, take a piss in a bush in my name. But don’t blame me if you get cited or arrested.

Stay frosty.

Three Cheers for Sweet...Prozac?

I recently started taking Prozac, and I have to admit it really does make me feel better. It takes away the heaviness and slow-motion I usually feel. And today I noticed something even better. It made me feel like almost my true self. Getting rid of the depression and anxiety gave me a small peek at what it would be like if I wasn't so emotionally damaged. It felt damn good. It actually made me feel powerful and slightly confident, as opposed to helpless and lacking confidence in every way possible. Yes, my little miracle drug is working, despite having some "slight" side-effects(increased anxiety the first few hours, paranoia and hyperactivity at night). Small price to pay for happiness, right? Besides, it also helps with my will and inspiration to write. My last blog is an example of what happens when I stop taking it and force myself to write. This time I have the Prozac in my system and am truly inspired to write. With that said, lets go a bit deeper into the meaning of the "other side-effects".

As I mentioned above, it makes me feel better, almost like myself, blah blah blah. But, as with everything else in life, there is a dark side. And no, I'm not talking about Darth Vader talking to me while I'm under the influence of Prozac. I mean an emotional dark side. There is something truly and utterly terrifying about being my true self. My fear can be divided up into 3 things: the fear of not liking my true self, the fear of not knowing how to be my true self, and the fear of not being able to control myself. The first two are pretty self-explanatory, the third one I will explain further. I'm afraid of not being able to stop shedding away parts of my current self and end up with an incomplete, egotistical, unstoppable human being who does not "play well" with others. You're probably thinking "Well, why don't you just take away all the bad stuff?" Well, sir or madam, I can't just do that because I don't know which bad stuff is the result of my depression and which bad stuff is just part of who I am. At this point it feels like the third Spider-Man movie, where Peter Parker finds the "Venom" suit thingy and it sort of takes over with time and he can't quite get rid of it. That's how my depression feels, like the Venom suit that's stuck on me and is now an integral part of my being. I fear that if I "surgically" remove the Venom suit, I'll inevitably lose part of myself and end up incomplete anyways. How do I know what and how much to remove from myself? How do I know where to draw the line that separates being free from being crazy and out of control? I hope at some point it'll become clear. But in the meantime, I'm scared shitless.

Paws up.