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� In this diary, I record my life as a transvestite. Perhaps it will help somebody else, who finds their lifestyle doesn't quite match that endorsed by the 'tranny mafia'. Well, I've been there... and survived. The debriefing starts here.

�loves: All kinds of stuff that society thinks I shouldn't.

�hates: Microsoft. Obviously.

�reads:
secret-motel
artgnome
enfinblue
stepfordtart
ten-oclock
boombasticat
lawliiet
annanotbob
fifidellabon
my-serenade

Lynn Jones
Becky
Samantha

An Allergic Reaction to Paranoia - revisited
12:11 a.m. -- 2009-01-08

You might remember an earlier article of mine, in which I described how I used to find myself frantically scrubbing at my face before work, trying to eradicate every last atom of Revlon and Max Factor. Funny that... all those adverts for long-lasting lips, noticeably better pores and fantastically fattened-up lashes... things people like me really don�t want, the next morning!

Anyway, I had another allergic reaction to paranoia, more recently. Although it didn�t have anything to do with makeup, nor even to cross-dressing, as such.

I was upstairs in my office, at home, and I happened to bend down to reach for something on the floor. One of those simple movements we make a hundred times a day without thinking about it.

This time, though: boom. My back just exploded. Halfway into my stoop, I clung to the edge of the desk, white-knuckled. It took me a couple of minutes just to lie down. I mean, I know I�m a wuss and everything, but I was sobbing.

For several weeks, I�d kept injuring my back. I�d complain of stiffness, then have a hot bath and ignore it for a few days... but I kept topping up the injury before it healed. Stupid.

This time, though, it was for real. I was immobilised.

It�s surprising how interested in lying on the carpet you suddenly become. When you can�t even roll over and crawl along the ground, you just reach out for something to read, haul it into your field of vision, and lie there. I was at home alone, with hours stretching ahead of me... so I got on with some reading.

Then I remembered that earlier in the day I had updated my diary. From the computer that lives downstairs, under our television. Had I logged out? Had I left my diary on display, for all the world to see? If Victoria nudged the mouse when she got home, and caused the screen to wake up...? �Confessions of a part-time girl� wasn�t written with that particular audience in mind.

Or had I closed down the web browser afterwards? (Firefox, of course. Studies show that 84% of transvestites in remission use Firefox.)

It surprised me, how much I babbled, through clenched teeth... in a kind of rhythm with each gasp. Each inch of movement, to get me up off the floor, along the landing and headed downstairs. After a few minutes, I had evolved a method of walking, keeping both palms firmly planted on the kneecaps. It seemed to reduce the amount of weight being transmitted down my spine. Using this method, negotiating stairs became possible - just.

I lurched across the living room, and woke up the computer in question. Firefox had been safely shut down all along, and my journey was in vain.

Hard floors are said to be good for a bad back. It took me a couple of minutes to lower myself to the ground, but then I embraced it joyfully. I stayed on my back for the rest of the day.

My epic journey � and let�s face it, descending the East Face of MFV�s main staircase with a bad back ought to be up there with ascending the North Face of the Eiger � did additional damage, I�m sure.

But then as Neil Innes once observed:

�Paranoia can annoy ya - Schizophrenia gets in between ya�

Which gets the part-time girl coming and going, if you think about it.

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