So, tit-ishness clearly a part of the weekend and the memory of CBT Chair Work combined when trying to the Boy to sleep on that Saturday night to create an internal conversation. I intend to record this, and see where it leads, on here. However, to avoid being so boring that people have aneurysms, I shall post it behind a line-break thingummyjig.
In one chair is my desire to cross-dress and, in the other, is my inner critic.
No pithy name, just a function, thank you.
What? Twat-features? Fuck-face? Shit-cunt?
Joanna. My name is Joanna, you really haven't mastered this politeness thing. Anyway, yes, it's been a while and the record hasn't changed in all this time has it?
Change the record? Ha! When you decide to actually deal with any of the complaints then I'll consider changing the treatment and the way of dealing with you. I mean, look at the facts: you get stressed and then, rather than eliminating the problem by working at it you prance about like I don't know what. You waste time, fucking about in a bath, shower or whatever it is this week, and then get dressed and... it all wastes time and avoids the real issues. Heh, look at the fact that you're so fucking up yourself that your own wife won't fuck you. You know that this is due to the fact that you can't do the fucking decent thing and just drop the dressing. Come on, I mean, it's not like dressing does anything to change the fact that you're fucking ugly. You don't wrap something that looks like it should be hanging out of the mouth of a shark in women's finery and change the fact that it looks like a prehensile cock. Body hair in all the places one would expect of a boy entering puberty and a stench that could be described best as 'off-putting'.
In all fairness there's not much related to the issues that you claim I represent.
Oh, fuck off, Joanna! Joanna? It's not a fucking name you useless twat, it's an affectation that you've picked up for yourself. And it's all part and parcel of the same thing anyway. The depression, your excuse to indulge and flex what hold you have, the way in which you smarm your way across the psyche and then take root. All those new terms and the holier-than-thou arguments that you construct to support what you do whilst ignoring the plain and simple fact that it's all a fucking sham, you tit.
Scientifically and statistically there are three people in every thousand that are biochemically in the wrong gendered body, implying that there is no actual choice in-
Oh fucking hell, really? When this all started, with Toby and all that carry on, you weren't suggesting at any point that this was anything other than a sexual perversion. You at least had fucking honesty going for you and the excuse that Toby seemed to like the idea. Hell, it looked like the whole bloody charade was a way of getting some, were it not for the fact that you hid behind the biblical precept of marriage, that I note you dropped like it was on fire when you met Tilly, to avoid actually having sex. Oh yes, I remember how you wielded that fucking piece of shit to make Toby feel that she was less than you. Same sort of thing you used to do with your Mum come to think of it. She was afraid of your fucked up morals based on the worst aspects of Puritanism, you priggish twat.
Now, come on, that's not fair. That was more you than me, besides, it has nothing to do with a desire or wish to dress in clothes that are socially associated with the opposite gender. This, in itself, fails to address the fact-