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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

A storm of butterflies
5:51 p.m. -- 2010-03-31

Do you remember those autumn days, when you were a little kid, and you could run around in the park, kicking up a storm of dead leaves?

Three years ago, I was walking along a path through the jungle, in Brazil. Victoria was walking ahead of me. Not kicking up dead leaves, but as she moved, there was a similar effect. Only it wasn't dead leaves that were stirred up, momentarily; it was live butterflies. They were every colour of the rainbow, and the electric blue ones had a wingspread like the palm of your hand. The black and white ones had concentric rings, spreading out from a central motif that clearly read "88", as if it were the number on a racing car.

Regardless of their tribe, all the butterflies were drawn to Vicky (or, if we're going to be cold and rational about it, perhaps they loved her red jacket). They landed on her, every chance they got. If we hadn't kept moving, she could have worn a living cloak of butterflies; they loved my brand new wife that much.

I have never forgotten that image, and I don't think I ever will. God, I love my butterfly-charming, impish, gutsy, vulnerable, clever, silly, stylish girl.

That is all.�

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