It crossed my mind this morning, while I got up to a pivot the time honored lateral transfer to wage a five hour battle with my felines over toiletry rights and brewing coffee, that perhaps Sean followed me in rebuttal to my critique, which might be, arguably, as fossilized as Jonathan Capehart's adherence to the civil rights movement. We've all been down these paths before, with few exceptions, and not everything can be solved as a matter of personal autonomy, not even for those with gender dysphoria.
For those of you offering me free kindle material, I am not worried about restrictions on my book purchases right now. I have a back log of light and heavy reading-- and from my scan of Derrida in translation, I may have jumped in over my head, if his translator says Jacques is *unreadable*, but I know where to find you, and I am working on, debating, two collections for digital, so I'll be in the fray soon, if my rental agent isn't going to take me to court to re-institutionalize me before I can divorce the so called Presbyterian agent. Drag queens aren't new people. It may not have been Christine I read about years and years ago, but the faulty wiring issue has been around as a sacrosanct biological truth for some time. It may seem nice and reasonably drawn: we're a complex species with complex switches, and we fix the blown fuses-- at least until we short out the entire organism.
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