She's lounging on the futon playing Stardew Valley. We both get a kick out of it. Mainstream gaming can **** a *****. Exceptions occur, of course. I look into the bathroom mirror through a splatter of mouthwash and toothpaste and groom my hair, my face like I think highly of myself. I don't. I shave and I pluck, admire the edges, pretend I'm of feminine energy, pretend according to the faces and voices that matter. We have to look out for ourselves somehow, but in whole what the world can see of us makes them think we're outsiders trying to climb into an exclusive box. I want to find myself beautiful, and I know you must be happy with yourself, but there's no pleasure in false positives. Where is the touch of appreciation? To struggle visually means that windows are better caked. Not cis, nor have I ever been. In the end, I'm content enough choking in the wasteland.