A 12-year old boy sasses me, “You’re no lady!”

To some degree he’s right. But he’s stating that I don’t look like a lady. I’m not poised and conventional. I clearly wouldn’t know which fork to use. Based on the way I look to him, I’m likely to corrupt his tenuous grasp on reality. But he doesn’t know that. He just knows I don’t look like a lady.

He’ll never know that I don’t fuck on the first date. That I suffer silently. That his innocent judgment of me is a symptom of the dysfunctional society we live in. It’s too late for me. I haven’t given up hope for the future. I’ve also accepted I’m marked and awaiting my number to be called.

For example, this is a dream I recorded when I woke up a few days ago:

I was in a girl factory. Not a factory worked by women, one that generates women. Set up like a mall there are stations and boutiques for developing your womanhood. Some of it was seminar classes and others were workshops where you did things in your own. One of the big groups exercises was about reactions to unpleasantness. During the demonstration the instructor told one girl to stab another and she did. I was horrified and the teacher calmly explained that at some point we would all stab and be stabbed because that’s what it takes to be a woman. I stood up and walked out because I refuse to do it. Later they were hunting me around the school because I wasn’t allowed to be there anymore.

Not sure why I wanted to stay.