Courage, Matt, courage.
OK, I’m ready.
This is it. I’m coming out. I want the world to know. I’m a black, lesbian platypus trapped in a white, straight guy’s body. This is my truth. It’s my experience. It’s how I identify. It’s my reality (actual reality notwithstanding). Transracial, transgender and transpecies lives matter (#TransLivesMatter), and I’m declaring myself an out and proud member of the LGBTTT community.
Crazy, you say? Don’t judge me, hater. This is my race-species-gender identity and expression, whether real or perceived, and if you refuse to play along, then you’re violating my civil rights.
This is my struggle. I demand admission to the wrong bathrooms and showers, the right to play for the other sports teams and unfettered access to your children so I can indoctrinate them till they can’t see straight, or I’ll ruin you.
Identify me by whichever stupid pronoun I invent, you cisgender, cisracial, cisspecies bigot, or I’ll glitter bomb you so bad that you’ll be slightly inconvenienced.
Move over, Caitlyn Jenner.
You’re yesterday’s news, Rachel Dolezal.
I’m here! I’m, er, whatever! Get used to it!
It’s my turn. I want my reality show. I want my heavily-Photoshopped, little duckbilled mug on the cover of National Geographic posthaste.
Call me Mrs. Wiggles.
Oh, and transwealthy. I’m that, too. I really need to get my mortgage transpaidoff, so, yeah, I’m transwealthy.
Well? Don’t just sit there. Get busy. Suspend disbelief. Bend the space-time continuum and otherwise adjust your life to accommodate my moonbat pathologies, you microagressive transphobe, or I’ll have your job.
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