Context is...
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Context is a Binary

Since I lack internet connection in the writing of this, I will start this essay with a personal definition.

A binary exists because humans feel a need to come up with as few categories as possible when trying to comprehend the limitlessness that is the world around us.

To that end, there are many times two of everything.

Two sexes, male and female.

Two genders, man and woman.

Two sexualities, straight and gay.

Two methods of expression, masculine and femme.

But what exists at the very center of it all?

Like, the very fucking center?

That’s where I feel I’m at.

The very fucking center of the tootsie roll pop of existence.


Because I do not feel I have been anything beyond my nucleus.

My core.

The core of my expression.

I feel humans are infinitely capable, just look at it.

Humans can train for their entire fucking lives for a particular sport, craft, art, or specialization.

They are like well-honed swords used for their craft.

They are the sheerest expressions of their will when their will is what they express as true.

When we do not, however, what do we become?

Just a well of potential, in my opinion.

Or at least, maybe that is how I am made to feel I am.

A well of potential.

Never truly committing to anything.

And yet committing to the line above in true.

I almost feel I do not commit to anything because I myself have never felt committed to.


When a parent feels more inclined to commit themselves to their desires to be right, what happens to a child is the experience of invalidation beyond which one can comprehend as even above life and death.

So much so, in fact, that one cannot truly feel themselves unless they permit themselves to occupy an altered state of thought.

Sobriety sucks.

That sucks to say. It sucks even more to hear.

But it’s true.

When I am sober I am forced to listen to my worst of thoughts.

All. Fucking. Day.

You do not matter.

You are not good enough.

You are a failure.

You do not measure up.

You will never be what you desire.

These thoughts chase me through the day and exhaust me frequently.

Thus I drink. Or I smoke.

Regardless, this essay is about something else.

What causes me to exhibit the symptoms of an addict?

Perhaps the gender binary, actually.

Perhaps the oppressive ignorance of the patriarchy, really.

Perhaps the feeling of not belonging to a particular camp of thought.

Regardless, I don’t identify with what the mirror tells me I look like.

I never have, actually.

Call it Imposter Syndrome, call it a cry for attention.

I call it an existence between the realms of masculine and femme.

A calling to not ascribe to the norms assigned to what we call gender.

Fuck. Gender. Reveal. Parties.

Fuck them.

Gender reveal, or may I call them assignment parties, are the first of many decisions we make for a child.

We decide for the child the first of many crucial paths they will take in life, without knowing the impact it has on them.

Deciding the gender of the child is to impose a set of rules and restrictions on how they must express themselves in life.

To err outside of the constraints and will imposed on them is to be a shame on the family itself.

On its beliefs.

On its religion.

For if one is to subvert the cause of one’s being, then one must be subversive in name.

A fool, prancing daintily forward with gusto and pride.

For my religion is in fact one of subversion.

One of upending.