What the world doesn't need

There was a time when I wondered if the thing to do might be to undergo sex re-assignment surgery. When I was really young, I had no means to comprehend the notion of variability and ambiguity in gender expression. When I was a kid, Taco Bell was exotic. But thanks to Tom Snyder, I knew all about sex changes. Which made for interesting lunchroom chat in the fourth grade. Ultimately, I only really discounted the idea on the principle that the last thing the world needs is another straight white guy. Especially a relatively short one with anger issues, inwardly goaded and tortured by his own inability to grow a decent beard.

(In retrospect, I suspect I should have investigated the option of sex re-assignment more seriously. If only to avoid these many years of torment I have endured, trying to figure out what to wear. Sure, on most days, it’s easy enough to fall into the default lesbian uniform of androgyny. But special occasions demand drag. For a big event, you more or less have to pick a gender and run with it. Unless you’re in heels. Then you must not run; you must totter, awkwardly, whilst keeping track of that purse you would otherwise never carry and aren’t at all sure goes with your outfit because nobody ever taught you these rules, and no matter how much you studied Vogue in high school, the secrets of accessorizing remain more elusive than fractal geometry, and you must then ultimately drink too much in order to soften the sting of trying not to look like Peppermint Patty for one friggin’ evening—is that too much to ask?)

Now here’s a new temptation to give the world s’more crap it doesn’t need. Even less than the world needs another straight white guy scratching at the door does the world need another person with a blog, also at the door, also scratching. And writing in throbbing detail about what it’s like to scratch. And speculating about what makes her scratch. And hurling excessive time and effort formatting and editing her unheeded scratches. For no money.

Yes, it’s another great idea. What could be a better use of my time than to generate the literary equivalent of that cheaply made and wholly untantalizing free gift that comes with the infomercial product you would only consider buying when you’re drunk? In this endeavor I am the personification of that flavor injector that comes as Ron Popeil’s gift to you with your purchase of a counter-top rotisserie oven. You, by the way, will probably not use that oven very often. (Where are you going to put all that meat? Have you even thought about how much space a standing rib roast is going to take up in your freezer?) And do you really need the free the flavor injector? Maybe if you need to rocket-launch a pill down your cat’s throat and lodge it into the lining of his intestines.

Perhaps I am best served by accepting my remarkable similarity to the flavor injector. I too am free (or seem to be). I too may seem clever at first. And upon further consideration, my appearance also tends raise questions regarding possible uses for gendered, if not unsettling, behavior. A questionable use of time. Hardly justifiable effort. Uncertain purposes. No promise of penetrating content. At best, I can hope to just inject the flavor of something, but never the thing itself.

But it all manages to turn out okay anyway. Who needs a sex change when ya got a flavor injector, anyways?