Chapter 9 - With Myself

I had plenty of things I could complain about and log away. But they had no currency. They were just “male“ complaints. Mom, the other one, made a big deal of reducing the complaints of men to molehills before the mountain of female trials and motherhood. The automatic “I win“ button to mash.

What about the fact I had to wipe mom‘s bedridden, diarrhea spewing asshole for years on end without respite? No currency, because I didn’t bleed guts for any part of my life. If you want to start a war about it though, mom, don't women with excruciating endometriosis count higher on the suffering scale than other women? Once you start counting, escalation never stops.

Let’s go quantify this person through a highly distorted lens of our own making. They’re a piece of shit compared to this other one. Throw them out with the junk! I drooped down on the table.

I would never win. For all the years I could count as suffering, they only counted if someone cared. And counting wasn’t caring, it was just a biased effort at quantifying shit that didn’t matter.

That all sounded good and felt like a tiny revolution in my soul. But it wasn’t as though I would go easier on myself. My doppelgänger still stood there, with a smug expression on her face. What does it matter?

I could be the prettiest girl on earth and still feel like trash. I could have unlimited powers and still feel helpless. It was all between the ears.

So, what do I do? What can I do? I just want to be able to smile a little bit more. I can’t wage war against other human experiences. There will always be things I can never understand about other people because the only tools I have are my imagination and my own pool of experiences.

Even if I was born Maggie, I might never know what it’s like to give birth. Maybe my random, flippant analogy of a bowling ball trying to shit itself through a tiny sock had some truth to it. No clue.

It didn’t even matter that I had points of reference on a pain scale. Nor did it matter that I peaked the pain meter in waves of agony references for days to weeks on end. I grabbed a clean towel from one of the closets in place of a blanket, since I didn’t have any I wanted to hug right then.

Hugging Camille or my family as tightly as I hugged that towel would only make them worry. Tears came easy but they didn’t feel cathartic.

The other me didn’t matter, but she lingered as an apparition in my thoughts. My towel friend was boneless and couldn’t hug back but I still appreciated having it in my arms. At some point, I decided that another shower was the remedy I needed. Something to dispel the hot dust of the desert afternoon.

It felt like a waste to give up my new clothes so soon though. Washing them would take at least an hour in one machine and almost two in the other, if I hadn’t put something in already. Ultimately, the best compromise was to slip on some of my old drawstring shorts along with a worn top.

The style of both had changed. I didn’t recognize them. The drawstring shorts were clearly a smooth, all-cotton variety with plush comfort in mind. And the sleeves of the top were cut a little bit tighter while not feeling uncomfortably snug.

Earlier I was sure that my clothes had been some sort of multiverse residue of my previous self. Now, they seemed as changed as I had been. At least that meant I wouldn’t have to buy an entirely new wardrobe to follow up my casual purchases this afternoon. The rules to all this still eluded me, but at least it didn’t feel like they were written in opposition to me.

Stepping naked into the shower again made me feel alive. Shifting, posing, and focusing on the certain parts brought me to new heights and my imagination carried me the rest of the way.

Against the bathroom window, an evening breeze picked up as the sun found its rusty way to the mountains in the west. Though not a brutal blowtorch nor anywhere near cooling, the wind was appreciated despite the dust it stirred.

The wind reminded me of the rare storms that flashed through. Like the one that broke earlier and left everything muggy, with nary trace now that it ever occurred. Though it might be too much to hope for an overnight shower to rinse the night clean, I still imagined the sounds of water flowing against the west end of the roof.

It filled my thoughts, even though simply washing my body was still enough to occupy my mind. Using one of my old devices, one I didn’t worry about setting near the steamy spray of the shower, to play some epic instrumental music or slow song by Billy Joel I would never otherwise listen to crossed my mind, though I was nearly done. Hopping out to get it seemed pointless. At the same time, I could look at my water-traced shape with the lights turned down and appreciate it before something popped up again.

As tempting as that was, I’d still do it anyway when I got out. But this way I’d be doing it at least twice. Slipping out naked and dripping, I lingered before the mirror next to the bathroom with just enough shadows to compliment me. I’d seen it all before, but it still felt tantalizing and fresh. Darkly-soaked red hair matted against my shoulders. The suggestive bump and prominence of my nipples. The sloping curve to my smaller body. My genuine smiles.

Returning with the old device under one arm while showing off my backside, I lingered by the mirror as I slowly set some random music to play. Giggles came easily over the fact I was putting on a show for myself. And an encore came with the echoes of epic tunes reverberating through my skull.

I even added another pass with my remixed wardrobe. From there, I brushed my teeth, used a cleanser pad, and attended to a dozen small things. I had to take care of myself like this. No magic assured another do-over.

With a towel crowning my head, I stretched out on my bed. Pointing my toes down, no amount of stretching even got close to the edge.

Not that I could do it before, but it used to be closer. My feet felt like they were exfoliating and my eyes lost a little grit from a quick rub that made them feel like a dammed stream. Sifting through my apps, while hunting around for other flakes of evening grit, I opened up the one for Reddit. Checking my earlier posts confirmed no one had left any comments on them. They had been voted up, which was something, but that was all.

If I took a naked photo with the right positioning, then it could probably turn out as tantalizing as my reflections. Who was I trying to impress though? Just random people on the Internet. Sure, naked shots or heavy cleavage snaps vastly outnumbered the lighter stuff I was doing, but there were several factors to consider.

First of all, I knew my students used the same websites I did. The chances of them running across one of my images seemed remote. But that bumped up against parts of the code of conduct I verified for employment. Now, that didn’t specifically mention naked photos, but it did allude to presenting a professional, responsible figure for students.

Getting discovered seemed so massively unlikely, especially when my posts barely moved the needle. But the mental stress on me of having to fret didn’t feel worth it.

I did make one more shot though. Positioning my phone on a little clamp that I needed to wash off first because I rarely got any use out of it, I looked towards the camera with a faint smile and a gently stuffed top. The result looked really good. I didn’t even need to tuck anything down.

After several careful minutes of scrutinizing the shot, I did use an app to remove some of the clutter and distraction in the background. Otherwise, it looked great. Fortunately, my earlier shots hadn’t really drawn much attention to my chest, so I had a certain degree of plausibility as to what my bust would look like, especially reclining.

Like all the rest, I chucked it like a tiny bottle into the endless ocean. My title ideas didn’t feel especially inspired, but I went with a friendly wish that everyone was having a pleasant evening and that I was a little sleepy and just chilling in bed. No matter how I phrased it, I figured that a sexual connotation would slip through. That was fine.

Once I double-checked that the rules of the Reddit were followed to a T with tags, headlines, and hosting, I finished posting it.

And then came the waiting again. But I didn’t have to wait too long before the letter in the top corner turned red. Reasonable expectations though. A deep breath. Shivers down my leg.

When I opened the new message, I thought for a second it was an auto mod telling me I screwed up one of the precise imaginary rules. But no, it was actually a message from a moderator, a human one.

[Your posting is NOT original content. It has been deleted. For the rules about posting on this Reddit please refer to…]

… Wait. What? The first thought that popped into my head was how lots of little changes occurred in my life. Maybe I was semi-famous online now? If so, why wasn’t my regular login saved on my phone? The more likely possibility was that I simply looked like someone and the moderator made a snap judgment. Certainly seemed in-character for Reddit.

Keeping my response genial and polite, I explained that I just took the photo mere minutes ago and they could do a cross-search if they wanted to. There were all sorts of things online that recognized reused photographs.

Honestly, I figured I could just go to another place on the site and not have to deal with quite so many time-wasting questions. I only had to browse for a few minutes before the moderator got back to me. They accused me of editing the image. Whatever.

Halfway through taking an identity verification shot, it suddenly occurred to me that maybe the moderator had an unscrupulous pretense behind what they were doing. My next reaction was to summon up whatever power changed me and sick it on them for some sudden boobs. Till then, I positioned myself so that my stuffed top looked even, I slipped on the helper bra from earlier, and I repositioned the neckline for just the barest suggestion of cleavage.

Nothing too egregious. Nothing that couldn’t be written off as incidental posing. Nothing I didn’t mind losing to someone’s random tribute archive. It was telling that he reinstated me after that, although I didn’t get an apology. My image did linger at the “hot“ peak of postings for a bit though.

Only after several minutes spent quietly sifting through my phone, did an actual alert pop up. Three of them.

“cyute”
“do the carpet match the drapes?”
“Im in bed too”

One had 1998 appended to their name and the other had a bunch of Xs. Seemed like standard throwaway accounts. Not especially fulfilling, but about what I expected.

In order, but not immediately, I responded, “Thnx!”, “what do you think ;-)?” and “sleep tight!” Ignoring proper spelling, capitalization, and the way I usually wrote felt like a slow-burning acid in my brain. But this was just from messing around. I didn’t have to take it seriously.

Still, it hurt to see shit online degrade as the decades went. The elite idiots for whom “gotcha” puns and one-line zingers got loudly clapped and then the orgy of incoherent, screamed monosyllables. Harf arf garf daaaahhy!!! The only thing worse was thinking you were hot shit in comparison while diving in the screaming pool.

Why was it so hard to even try to stand out? There was no one to impress and yet I put so much work into receiving the leavings of three throwaways. Everything about the Internet was made up and whatever points didn’t matter. Wasn’t that the sort of clever comment that made for a zinger?

I left it at that. Fortunately, a few minutes later Camille texted me with an apology for not getting back sooner.

“I stopped at my place for like just a minute and then I remembered I desperately need to get groceries before all the good places closed. I’m so sorry!”

After assuring her it was fine, I let her text. She shared a little supermarket struggle with hunting everything down. It had a really nice, dramatic presentation. Better than I could manage in so few words.

I shared some of the boring details of my evening by framing them with taking a nice shower to relax, arguing with myself for a minute, and messing around with my camera. She hoped that I beat myself in the argument with a smirk. Then she shared her daydream for a scented bath before asking if I was interested in sharing my “photographic experiments”.

She received the lump sum of all the photos I took for the day. Her words didn’t go into exacting detail but each felt cordial and sincere with the value of a thousand randomly barfed out by the Internet. She really enjoyed my wet hair and did a cute eyebrow wiggle when my cleavage was shown off. For that, I made a few exclusives for her eyes only.

We spent most of the evening talking about random thoughts, foods, and movies that looked interesting from the recent past. I shared a website that allowed people to simultaneously watch the same video while far apart. She suggested that we could just chill together beside the same screen.

Eventually, she headed off to take that bath but encouraged me to leave her offline messages and whatever else I was inspired to create, be it photos or text.

Naturally, my creative wellspring immediately became a parched, cracked pan of desolate, salted Earth. It happened a lot. Someone might ask me to say something creative or mention what’s on my mind. It always dried up in those moments. Some of it could’ve been nerves. The pride of my creativity wanted to knock it out of the park every single time. To offer up something trite or uninspired would be failure.

I rested my still-wet hair against the pillow and gazed up at the static patterns of sound-muffling cottage cheese above me.

What if this was it? I fall asleep tonight and wake up tomorrow, to a day set right on the path beforehand. No parents. No Camille. No perfectly cute shape. No fancy little bookstore plaza. Just a return to sanity and normalcy.

My eyes slipped closed with quivering tiredness before popping back open. I could fall asleep right here. A stretch and a shake did little to fix how much I felt awake. With the hours I had tomorrow, it would be good to rest soon. Assuming that my work time hadn’t shifted either. I could listen to spooky, unsettling podcasts like a morbid lullaby. The only unpleasant part was they often left me with full, detailed dream worlds which drifted away like smoke upon waking.

Popping out of bed with as much of an energetic hop as I could summon, I slipped one of the cleaner pairs of socks on. They were tiny but surprisingly bulky. I hadn’t seen them before, but they didn’t specifically seem like socks for Maggie. Rolling them up helped with getting the most of their length. The ends clung to my knees without feeling weird or uncomfortable.

They didn’t build up a static charge despite their thickness against the dense house carpet. Still, it felt fun to scuff them. Despite the relative warmth of the evening, I eagerly slipped on the next thing… A silver, cottony-soft hoodie.

My daydream. The hoodie hinted at a curved shape to my altered shoulders and dangled low like a weird sort of dress over my legs. Turning in place and flapping my sleeves, I felt youthful with purified vigor. My muscles had to bring me back to Earth with a random ache.

The new purse managed my keys, wallet, and phone along with the concession of a bulky taser and a fist full of pepper spray. It had been a good day but, even decades ago, this place had bad nights. No matter if the world considered me a man or a girl, I was smaller and needed to compensate.

Outside, after locking the front door, the wind felt surprisingly chill, like a watery soak in the heights of summer heat. What moisture was left in my hair was well on its way to drying into memory. I practically danced my way down the steps. Strolling along the grass and past my car felt like a private jaunt. The veil of evening made all the world recede. Bulky trees sheltered houses, windows, and even reached up far enough to twinkle the useless, dull-toned LED lamps.

The breeze came in swells that once again bunched up my clothes, dragging me onward like snatched paper. I spun in place like a toy as the little island where everyone sold their used cars had been cleared out of all but the original rock art and dwarf trees. Turning, the wind continued to drag me the way it wished as I pushed forward.

It was only about a fifth of a mile to the market at the corner. Waiting for the light took most of the time. Plenty of walkers crossed the paths, some strolling by themselves, some families with little kids orbiting around the center of parental mass. I secured my purse and decided not to cross over to the market but continue along the edge of a walled-off housing tract.

Every step I took forward weighed on me as one I would have to trace back to return. That said, I did have the taxi app, if I accidentally twisted my ankle or something else serious happened. Every flash of anxiety and flare of nervous thought had to be vigorously tempered by stoking optimism and ease.

It was going to be fine. Granted, taking a walk at night by myself, under any circumstances, wasn’t the best idea in this area. But the only mall to enjoy walking around was on the other side of town and started closing early with events. The nearest colleges were also on the other end of Brookville Valley.

Not that it was the worst area, but I remembered when seeing one homeless guy at a park was cause for scandal and concern. Now, seeing just one was a surprise. When I was young, there was a guy who marched around in an ornate uniform with a tall hat, like he was that guy in San Francisco in the 19th century who declared himself the Emperor of America. I steered clear of him.

Past older tract houses and a few mobile home parks, I made a left onto the road beside a small school and followed the glow the rest of the way to the new bookstore plaza.