"My Family is Transgender "

That’s what’s written, on a median strip, somewhere out there. It could’ve been written two years ago; but even so, I don’t fancy disclosing its location. I can respect an individual’s right to privacy. You’ll just have to take my word for it; it exists — written with a black marker, with a font at about a hundred or so; and, alongside it (with another marker, as commentary), it is written: “That’s sad; That’s rad." Yes, this is the truth, you can bet on it. And, I suppose, I may just have a thing or two to say about it, myself.

But, I’m not your therapist, unfortunately. So you might just want to seek a professional for this sort of family predicament...

Still, you might want to know what I think; or perhaps, what can be done about this... shall we call it an outcry? Perhaps, of all the expertise available out there, for some reason or other — if you're still reading this — you have come to value my opinion; and thus you may have even subscribed to me (which, if you have, I’ll go ahead and thank ye — right here. It’s high time I show appreciation for my viewership; so thank you, truly); and, like I was saying, you might ultimately be reading this because you are captivated by what I'm about to share.

That being said, there’s always a slight chance — of course, there’s always a chance — that, something I happened to have written or said (whilst inebriated or other, perhaps even in a past life), has caused a series of cascades, of a sort, culminating in this brash and illicit display, about someone’s family, which at once catches the attention of all who pass on by it… and supposing this is the case, what is written here in this article, henceforward, is thus my attempt to vindicate myself; for, “I draw no petty social lines…” (Faulkner).

After all, you might know a thing or two about me. You might even be of this opinion: “Why, that fellow over there — he’s a middle-aged, white, educated, male. ‘Privileged,’” you might even retort. You may have thus formed your opinion of me, long ago, before this random artistry that one has put on display, on a concrete median. Well, I’m going to be rather frank with you. I’m going to be brave, and I’m going to tell you what I think. I’m going to eloquently state, right here, for my viewership, what’s going on in my frontal lobe — so raise that halyard with the rainbow flag, and be sure to duck under the 'boom' when it swings to the starboard side, so it doesn’t accidentally cause a blow about your noggin; as the wind would cometh from the East.

Here it is, my reason for taking the helm, for steering this ship as Palinurus would, with a flag that doesn't belong to my person: my rent is due. That’s right. That’s what's on my mind, this very second. I’m thinking about my rent being due, and it’s like a woodpecker constantly pecking its way into the deep recesses of my forebrain, almost like when Raskolnikov contemplates murdering his landlady for want of rent money, because nobody would otherwise give a damn.

I’ll probably be thinking about the rent money tomorrow, too. So, let’s be clear and eloquent about your unfortunate dilemma: I’m unfortunately not thinking the slightest about what’s in your family trousers, no matter how much pecking they happen to do, so long as they keep their trousers on when I'm around; and, that they respect one's personal boundaries, as any decent citizen would do. I wager 99 percent of the people out there don't care what’s in your family trousers either; for they certainly have their own problems to worry about. But, I can empathize, if that’s what you were hoping for. Sure, sometimes it truly sucks to be that one percent. But, you’re in a free country, aren’t you? Look on the bright side. Do you really need to go around broadcasting it though?