It is raining in the quadrangle.

L’érotique déconstruit et reconstruit mes connaissances charnelles

May the bridges we burn offer warmth and comfort. May the bridges we burn light the way.

Maybe next time, I’ll be a bird.

Over the last few years, I’ve been writing about the conviction among cis parents that being trans is a social contagion that has climbed to heights of pandemic proportion. I have dedicated myself to proving the fallacy of the suggestion. Writing these words, I firmly believe that they are wrong. But as I reflect on embodying t4t, I can’t help but wonder whether fertile avenues of understanding may be opened up by thinking trans as contagious, as a sexually transmissible condition. Though I would never adopt it in my legal or bioethical scholarship, I suspect it holds the seeds of a poetic, affective truth. I fuck, date, and love trans girls. I fuck, date, and love trans girls even when neither of us knows we are. I love them before they come out, holding open the possibility that every cis person is at a stage of becoming towards transness. I love them so much, I make trans girls. It may not be quite true, but I feel it in my bones.

For what is gender but scar tissue arranged in the shape of a self?

Lacan can eat a cactus dick.

So l'm sitting there, crayola jizz on my titties...