If I said I have to leave for New York tonight, would you come with me?

Today in Media, we watched American Beauty. I had my suspicions, because even though it won several awards, so did The King's Speech.

But actually, it turned out to be one of the best movies I've watched in school ever. I think History Boys beats, though.

While the main plot is about Kevin Spacey having a mid-life crisis, there's an entire subplot about a boy called Ricky Fitts.

Ricky is just intense, but mostly harmless.

Ricky, as you can see, loves filming shit. He finds beauty everywhere. I really like him. We think he's a little psychotic at the start, but he turns out okay. But honestly, I always thought he seemed interesting, even when he didn't have a name and was just filming the girl in the film.

But oddly, he really reminded me and my best friend of Sylar, from Heroes. There's something about how they both move in an incredibly precise manner. Every single action has a purpose, even if it isn't that obvious. And they both have the same intensely staring dark eyes, where you don't know if you want to run or get closer. True, Ricky isn't actually a bad guy, he's just got repressive parents and a habit of dealing drugs.

But his relationship with the girl turns out fine, and they're good together, I think. They're both not very happy with their family situations, and they live next door to each other.

Sylar is both terrifying and beautiful, which is a bad combination.

Ricky has this scene with the girl, who I think is called Jean, where he's just showing her footage of a plastic bag in the wind, surrounded by leafs that are blowing around and stuff. He says it's the moment he realised true beauty. He also filmed a woman who'd died in the street, frozen up without enough layers, because he believed that in that image, God was staring out. And that if you tried hard, got the right angle, you could stare right back.

Ricky is one of those characters that you find both fascinating and a little worrying at the same time.

But that line, the line of my title, it speaks volumes to me. He's been told to leave his house, told not to come back, and he has the money from dealing, so he asks his girlfriend to run off with him. And you know what? She's so in love that she agrees. Those are the relationships I think people need to see more. The kind where the people involved will do absolutely anything for each other, will drop everything and run away just because their partner needs to.

Despite a strange ending, and some weird scenes, I actually really liked this film, and I might end up owning it in the future. Like Withnail & I, or The Good Night, or Donnie Darko, it leaves a lot of questions, and a lot of ideas that make you feel like you should maybe do something that day, something good, something for you.

I go to school, I write exams. if I drop out, if I fail, does anyone give a damn?

Post from the past. I'd estimate this around early September. I completed it today, and it seems a shame to start a post and never publish it. Especially since everything I was saying is still appropriate. So have a look at my past, today! It's like time travel but not very interesting.

I made the mistake of telling my dad my exam grades this evening.

My best friend and my partner were both out and unable to talk, leaving me to occupy myself by catching up with my dad for the first time since I got back.

As I should have foreseen, he told me to knuckle down into my studies this year. That much I can agree with. I mean, I am going to University next year, that much is decided, but the choice of Uni depends on how good my grades are, and I'm not about to let Brighton slip through my fingers.

The only thing I have to argue against is the fact that he assumed I didn't really care about my studies last year. That my hobbies and obsessions came first and studies were like the secondary, when they should obviously be primary.

This is because back in my previous school before sixth form, I would never have got a D grade, much less an E, which I got both of (as well as an A and a B, so it's not all terrible). If they asked me how my day was at that time, I'd have instantly launched into what I've learnt, how my friends are, how good my day was.

Now, when they ask, I don't really say much. I shrug, say it was alright, but that's about it.

Long story short, everything I have to say is about my transition, or some other aspect that either they don't know about or they don't care about. I'm regularly told they don't really care about my choices, these are all just observations to do with what I will.

They told me a year or so ago that they felt they were losing me, because I didn't tell them much, but I'm sure I'd be more open to conversation if I felt safe. I'm pretty sure media teacher knows more about my state of mental health than my parents right now. She said she wasn't sure about my name when contacting home, and I told her that it's fine, my name is legal now, and since I'm not actually allowed to answer to my given name by law, that she can use the right one. When she laughed in relief and said it's stupid that teachers are scared of parents, but it's a fact, I said it's fine, because I'm scared of them too. And sure, I threw it out with a tone of nonchalance, but I wasn't joking at all.

But then, that's my default, right? Like Jim Kirk, I cover my problems up with jokes.

But back to the point at hand, I can't really help getting the grades I am, because I'm not exactly having a grand home life, and it's pretty much fact that that affects your learning, because a lot of studying is done at home. Not to mention that the exams are getting harder, because last year I was competing with people that had at least a B or higher in the same subject as me, meaning they were already elite, and this year it's only the people from that exam that got through with a good mark. My family doesn't believe me when I tell them that a certain amount of U and F grades have to be given out, and it's all one bid to not be the kid that gets it, but they haven't been in the educational system for many years. I think I know what I'm talking about.

But I'm not going to get any grades unless I work for them, and I've only got the support of the people that aren't in the same house as me, so better shape up so I can ship out.

Spooktober. (AKA 'Am I a nerd yet?')

Hallowe'en in my favourite time of year.

I love the idea behind it, of trying to ward off the evil spirits, and I love that it's an excuse to dress up. I love how it's a given that you're supposed to watch scary films and talk about horror like you don't at any other time of year.

And yet, I feel like it's being killed a bit by the spirit of Christmas. Already, people are excited for December, my local charity shop already had a tree in the window whereas the newsagents next door is advertising horror make-up, capes, fangs, glow in the dark wands that look awesome.

It's like, people obviously don't care enough, so they just brush over it in their haste to get to the other stuff. But honestly, Christmas isn't such a big thing for me. I'm psyched about the Doctor Who special, which has been a big part of my day since 2005. But that's always my highlight. Maybe it's just that my family isn't the most hospitable thing I know at the moment, and I've always been more comfortable in fiction.

Every year, right about now, I start a Doctor Who book called Forever Autumn. According to this image, there's an audiobook, too. I can't work out how long I've held this tradition, but the book's been out around seven years, and I'm not sure if I owned it that long. I'd estimate every year for four or five years, I have read this in preparation for Hallowe'en. No real reason, just that the Doctor is perfect in this, and the plot is sufficiently spooky enough. I have a nice habit of not quite remembering it each time, too.

Moony doesn't want me focusing on my bedoom moving until she shows up here, so we can sort it out together. I'm slightly apprehensive, because we fear change. But it allows me to play around on various indie computer games in my free time rather than fussing over my room, whenever I'm not doing coursework.

I found a post on tumblr about RPG horrror games, such as the somewhat infamous Ib. I've always been a secondary gamer, so to speak, choosing to watch others rather than try out for myself. Although I have a few nice memories of playing Doom '95 and Half-Life 2. I want to try out Doom again, to freak out over the pixellated creatures from my nightmares that I've never actually faced before, because I was always a sissy and played with the safety setting on until one fateful day when I left the room and my big changed the settings, so when I returned and a monster started snarling at me, I screamed. And I haven't dealt with them since.

In honesty, I didn't expect to enjoy the games half as much as I am. I've never actually completed a game on my own before. I can't even promise I've got through a Pokemon game before because the constant training got repetitive for me and I probably just abandoned everyone. I don't have that kind of patience.

I don't think it's possible not to love Garry after playing this.

But Ib really had a strong affect on me. Not just because Garry is the kindest, most awkward guy I've ever found in a game before, but because it's a wonderful concept, the music is fantastic, and while it's a little tense in places, the humour makes up for it.

There are seven different endings, too, so that's a nice reason to go back a few times. I really liked this game.

I guess over time, I'll work through the list. Me and my best friend got through Misao today at school, and I've watched Ivan play some way through Mad Father a few times. Misao was fucking disturbing at the end, but pretty damn good.

So I've finally made the last step. I have glasses and I play video games all the time. Stereotypical nerdom, here I come.

I'm not okay [I promise]

I'm fortunate enough to have never actually fallen pray to depression, or have been truly sad enough to consider it a mindset I was in. But what I'm feeling right now, it's maybe the closest I've got for a while.

I can't exactly tell what the problem is, only that whatever I do, at the moment, leaves me with a heavy feeling in my gut, a kind of longing and desolation that I can't shift, and it's been there since this afternoon, when I was heading back from my only lesson of the day at sixth form and felt a welling energy of frustration and helplessness.

Moony was texting me about work and her new coat, but then she stopped suddenly around 11 hours ago, and since her best friend is in town again, I can only assume she either went to hers, or she'd been working so long she was too tired to stay up, and fell asleep instantly. Either way, we've had limited conversation all day, and the lack of knowing why has left me scrabbling for footholes in my empty bedroom in England.

Ivan's in a bit of a bad place too, for various reasons, and although I managed to get him in a pretty good mood yesterday, happier than he's actually been for a long time, it seems to have shot down again, and I'm so sorry that I can't help him.

Moony will be here on Friday, so I want to get my coursework done by then. I have media work due on Wednesday, an essay to write in class on Thursday, and a first draft due on Friday that I only just got pointers on. Truly, I should have done that today, but I've been on the edge of tears since I got on the bus to come home, and I feel like I couldn't focus, honestly. Or perhaps I could, but I'd get limited sleep, and I don't have the energy for that considering I have a full six hours that I have to be in school tomorrow.

I listened to My Chemical Romance, because I thought it'd help me feel better, but instead I'm caught with a crippling sadness about how they broke up, and how far they came since their first album. I'm reading a Spock/Kirk fic, and they just got back to Iowa, and instead of being fully invested, I'm feeling a strange sense of homesickness, because I realised something strange.

I've never actually lived somewhere that I feel I can consider 'home'.

Think about it, right now, there's only one place I can honestly think of with utter happiness and a sense of knowing I belong, and that's the flat that Moony no longer has, back in Sweden, that I visited two years back. She moved out because her memories aren't happy, and it was too lonely for one person, but I only remember a weekend of watching movies, cuddling, listening to Kent, and basking in the fact that we were alone, entirely, and we weren't being disturbed. That little flat, with the weirdly shaped corridor, tiny kitchen, and bedroom/living room space, that was home.

I can even identify when I was there, because we watched the Sherlock season two finale together there, crying in the darkness with our 'Reichenbuddy' as tumblr had suggested we have, muttering at the screen.

Even thinking about how easy things were then is making me almost cry. Maybe I'd feel a little better if I could actually cry.

Things have changed a lot since then. I've admitted my identity, started transitioning, and things have become tense with my family, even if we're all pretending absolutely nothing is wrong. But something seriously is.

I didn't intend for this post to be so disheartening, but it's about all I can manage.

Maybe I'll read a bit more of the Trek book I have nearby, or a Dredd comic to cheer me up, even though it's late enough that I could consider sleeping.

It just seems like right now, more than anything, I long to get away from the life I have right now, just for a few days. I would love for the Doctor to burst into my room and say he needs my help, or for Starfleet to recruit me and take me for a quick spin around the galaxy, or to be thrown into Mega City One.

I just need a distraction. I need something that isn't this cage of a bedroom, that isn't close living proximity that's making me feel more stressed than I have been for a while. I need to be near people that accept me properly and don't make me feel weaker than I already do just by throwing the wrong mix of letters that make the wrong pronouns in my direction.

The internet is for porn.

In media studies today and yesterday, it was announced that we were to watch a documentary about porn. Or rather, our teacher threw us in with 'today, we're going to watch porn!' and I, along with most of the class of 15, cheered.

But the documentary, while thought provoking, is also incredibly representative of the current world we live in, and presumptions that just aren't true.

For one, it mostly only looked at how porn was affecting teenage boys. This is socially accepted as the main viewers of porn, sure, but that's only because it's somehow frowned upon for girls to go anywhere near it. Like they're less worthy of investigating that side of things than the male population. But that's just stupid, because if they're supposed to be mostly innocent, but the boys want to have sex with them, then surely they should be allowed to want that back. And yet the minute a girl might admit to watching porn, she's viewed as less when boys can joke about it. There was no mention of how it affects girls other than them being victims of abuse because of it.

Also, the only porn they discussed was violent and heterosexual, with the males dominating. Now, I know full fucking well that that isn't all that there is. Sure, it's a percentage, of course it is. If you can think of it, there's probably a video of it. But that isn't all kids watch.

And the ways people are considering stopping this moral panic? Filters, bans. You can't ban things on the internet. People will always find ways, and if you tell someone they can't see something, they will only be more intent on finding it. Besides, if you filter your kids' internet access, at what point do you decide they're allowed it again?

I got cut off for two years because I found out I was trans* and started researching it, started conversing on tumblr with a boy named Rob in Canada, who identified at the time as genderqueer. He encouraged me, told me my parents would be fine. Said that it was tough, but I'd be okay. It took a lot of inspiration from him, and then my parents told me he was just using me for his own deluded needs, to convince himself of whatever his insanity claimed. They loudly implied he was mentally ill, that he was lying to me. It went against everything I'd read in his blog, everything I felt personally, and I knew they were full of shit, but I was made to delete my internet accounts, change my names on other accounts, and unable to go online unless my mum was next to me, monitoring.

That's damaged me. It cut me off from my friends, messed up my psyche and is probably the main reason I need therapy. That is not the right way to raise kids when they start trying to find out more about themselves and the world.

If adults are so damn worried about kids of the new generation thinking porn is how sex is supposed to be, and trying to live up to those unrealistic expectations, then it's about time they started telling the kids that.

The school education in England, if not everywhere except Denmark or something? Oh Scandinavia teaches only the very basics of heterosexual sex. Nothing extravagant, only the most obvious shit that everyone knows anyway. Sex education classes are largely useless. They teach you how contraception works, about pregnancy, about how to apply a condom (a class I missed, co-coincidently, yet I still managed to use one without that previous knowledge), but they don't explain how homosexual men and women have sex with each other.

I have a strong memory of year five, in the cloakrooms, aged eight, talking with my friend about how the hell lesbians were supposed to have sex. I don't even know how I found out they existed, but it probably wasn't my parents. I think we got to the conclusion that they used their hands, but that's all we could figure out. And until I watched through Queer As Folk a few years back, I can't confirm that I really had any strong idea. But I'm sure as hell glad I worked it out.

As for two guys? I found that out by accident, through Torchwood fanfiction, chapter six of a fic that had been mostly nice up to that point, with nothing intense. I cried, because I didn't understand what I was reading, what was happening, and I was maybe 13.

That's another thing. I almost pointed out that they're ignoring erotica and online stories, but then I'd have to admit that I regularly write gay porn, and that would be a little awkward.

More and more, kids are forced to find out online how sex really works, because there's a difference between looking at diagrams in school textbooks to the real thing. And it's screwing up their perception and understanding of how things should be.

So how do we sort that out? Well, maybe adjust the curriculum, teach a little more than just vanilla hetero sex. Teach the kids that everybody watches porn, that there are lots of types, and that sure, the representations aren't always good, but sometimes they are. That there's no difference between who can and can't watch it just because of their gender. Hell, there's a specific part on the female body designed for pleasure so why is it assumed that they aren't allowed to us it?

Better yet, maybe the parents could tell their kids all of this. My generation as adults will probably be a lot better, because we're getting better at discussing it. We're not looking at the stuff online and being all 'in my day it was just glossy top-shelf magazines and sneaky videos that showed a little skin gosh this is horrific'.

Maybe, if kids are aware from a young age that whatever they see online isn't necessarily the real world, if they're taught that there is a lot of variety, we can stop freaking out about the idea that they're all being made into sex offenders or something absurd. Adults freaking out to other adults isn't addressing the people at hand that really need the attention.

And if we could teach girls to stop feeling like they aren't allowed to get off or watch porn because they're girls, that would be great, too. We've got a long way to go, especially in ol' England, but maybe my generation will help change that.

And I found a quote that best explains how I feel about how this is being handled. So, in the beautifully syrup-like words of Cecil Baldwin, in this recent episode of Welcome To Night Vale:

'Listeners, especially our younger listeners, consider this; when we talk about teenagers, we adults often talk with an air of scorn, of expectation or disappointment, and this can make people who are presently teenagers feel very defensive, but what everyone should understand is that none of us are talking to the teenagers that exist now, but to the teenagers that we once were. Al stupid mistakes, and lack of fear, and bodies that hadn't yet begun to slump into a lasting nothing. Any teenager who exists now, is incidental to the potent mix of nostalgia and shame with which we speak to our younger selves. May we al remember what it was like to be so young. May we remember it factually and not remember anything that is false, or incorrect. May we all be human. Beautiful. Stupid. Temporal. Endless.

Past performance is not a predictor of human results.'

Light up my room.

It seems my room will be changed around again on Thursday. It's my day off from school, because the teachers are striking against something once more, and my mum thinks my bed should be closer to the radiator across the room. On the good side, this gets me far from my brother and the rest of the family, when it comes down to locations on lower floors. On the other side, it puts me directly before the door, which gives me stress levels that hark back to when I was a kid, and couldn't sleep with my back to the door.

My parents get angry if I lock it, even though I can, but I don't take well to being snuck up on or woken suddenly, which is why I lock it.

This will also put me out of sight of the walls I'm allowed to pin things on, meaning I won't be able to see the super awesome glow in the dark posters Ivan gave me, because they're currently placed in perfect view of my bed as it is, and where my bed will be is around a corner.

We want to put curtains up, but I feel caged in on my own unless I can see the stars, or outside in general, at night, should I wish to. I only just got over that with the posters, because they glow in the dark and I can still see stars. It looks like a port-hole on the Enterprise.

But my main problem is that my mum is going to be spending time in the space I'd falsely believed to be my one haven. I know this is false, now, because two days in a row, my mum has been in here without me around, and tidied up. This is a problem on many levels.

I have a signed autograph from John Finnemore on my wardrobe, with my name on it, and a flyer from Over The Rainbow. I have a lighter in stupidly plain sight if you sit on my bed, for candles and meditation. I have some money on my desk that I've been saving up from when I get lunch money, so I can afford to get to London with Moony on our two year anniversary.

I have an entire box full of my name change papers, trans* documents about either transitioning, or the rights I have, copies of Pride Life, the gay magazine I get from Over The Rainbow sometimes, and a couple of trans* booklet things. All of it is the stuff I'm yet to show them because they'll react badly.

But more than anything, I find it uncomfortable to know somebody else has been in my personal space without my permission or my being there.

And on Thursday, I'll be there, but I'll also be hiding all this stuff, and my binder. More than anything else, on Thursday, I'm scared of the conversation we might have to go through. I don't want to be asked about anything, don't want to get into arguments or debates.

Really, I get that I need to get warmer in my room, but I have two duvets, I don't want to move everything again when I only just found a nice layout.

Focus on the out breath.

This evening, I tried out meditation again.

I stole borrowed a lighter from my brother's room, and lit up a purple candle I have in a holder on my bookshelf. I spent this evening tidying up my room, and I've got a little area between my bed and the wall where I now have a bohemian-looking recliner thing that goes on the floor. It's nicely shut off, so I can't see most of my room, and I can focus my attention.

Once all the lights were off, and all I had was the candle, I tried a different technique than last time. Instead of closing my eyes, I stared at it. I was in total darkness this time, but having light helped.

I don't know any proper rules or anything, so I just did the whole 'deep breath in, slow out' and so on, but my shoulders relaxed in ways that I didn't realise needed doing, and I feel a lot more aware of things, now. I ended up staring and breathing for ten minutes, and ended up with a nice mantra.

In: I do not need their support or understanding to be happy 
Out:  Their ignorance is their own.

I want to get into this habit as often as I can. I've realised I spend a lot of time doing things. Nothing important, just tumbling, or reading, or messing with my phone because I'm restless. I need to put aside time to just sort myself out, decide what I'm doing, and do it as best I can.

Note, there's a website called Zen Habits that is great for that sort of thing, for pointing out things like how rarely we breathe properly, how to stop procrastinating and do what has to be done. The link takes you to a masterpost, of sorts, that gives the popular posts, so you don't feel overwhelmed.

My "people skills" are "rusty".

Last night, I attended a party for Zed's cousin's 18th birthday. This is the first gathering of a group of kids my age large than, say, five people, where there is alcohol and no adults.

It was... interesting. I don't know what I expected, but there was a lot of emotions, a lot of mess - though that was mostly due to party poppers - and a lot of drinking.

The girl who's birthday we were celebrating had a bit of an emotional overload, as did her ex-boyfriend who still has a mass of feelings, one guy drank too much in the first hour and was miserable all evening, and another guy collapsed at the end of the night. But mostly, myself, I had an alright time. Didn't drink too much, didn't get involved in the drinking games, and made sure people were mostly alright.

I even made some friends, one of which we nicknamed The Secretary, because he's that in our union at school. He was like the responsible adult. And a guy from media that's into Doctor Who and I've been on the edge of a friendship with for a while. So it was nice to finally get there.

And seeing Zed play around with kids was nice, too. He really reminds me of Dean Winchester, sometimes, how it's always a little surprising that he gets on so well with them.

And remember the grandmother that seems to like me? She actually battered him out of the way to hug me. Good to know I'm still a hit.

Towards the end of the night, before the adults arrived to help clean up, I started sweeping up all the debris on the floor, around the guys that were re-enacting Queen songs. I thought I'd be angry that I had to sort things out, but it felt nice enough to be helpful.

I learnt, though, throughout the night, that we've hit an age where it's a given that people are comfortable with kissing each other in their age group. It seems common grounds that if someone starts spinning a bottle, of course people will kiss whoever the bottle declares their momentary partner. I, obviously, hung back, because no way in hell am I doing that when I'm in a relationship. Not to mention I didn't want to get caught in the guys that refused to do gay stuff in case they didn't think I counted, and so on.

My age group confuses the hell out of me. I can't see why you'd kiss someone you weren't attracted to, especially in a public environment when if it lasts more than three seconds people start cheering and goading. If you're attracted to someone, and want to kiss them, sure, but peer pressure doesn't seem the way to go around it.

But at least now, I've experienced a part like that, and I've got to know some of my classmates a little better. I even managed to threaten an ex-classmate because she had Robin Thicke's Blurred Lines on her ipod. She promised to delete it.

I guess the message of today is, people are damn weird, but at least a lot of people are really okay with kissing people of the same gender. Even the most hetero of boys ended up agreeing to kisses on the cheek.

If I acted less like me, would I be in the clear?

Last night, I ended up spending the evening downstairs with my parents, my brother, and his girlfriend. Ivan and Moony were both asleep, Moony having told me she had to for work and Ivan crashing straight after telling me he didn't need or want to sleep. Maybe one day he'll remember to give warning before he passes out over the keyboard.

I didn't intend to spend so long down there. Originally I was asking for help with research, then me and dad were laughing about Dredd. Dinner arrived from the local take-out, so we all ate downstairs. I should have known to run as soon as I could, but I was lured into false safety by the Dredd talk and Benedict Cumberbatch unexpectedly being in the Graham Norton show.

One of the underlaying reasons me and my family aren't best suited to each other is the pure fact that they don't understand my personality. It's a pretty fundamental part of who I am, so it's no wonder it gets to me so easily.

It isn't that the conversation is always aimed at teasing me, but it tends to happen whenever I give an opinion. My problem, it seems, is that I'm too serious about things, and if I would only stop letting things get to me, then I would be okay.

But that would imply that I choose to be sensitive, to be hurt by their comments that really aren't meant in a mean way. Oh, but according to them, it really is my choice, and if I choose not to be affected, I won't be. It's all a state of mind.

I disrespectfully call bullshit.

I can't remember the topic of last night that got it started, but it got to a point where I reached for my phone, as I often to do hold off from shouting or to ground myself. Every single time I do this in their company, I'm laughed at, joked that I'm telling on them to the Internet, and they started impersonating me, in a high voice, saying that I'm claiming I hate them and wish they'd get run over by a bus, of all things. And that I can't wait to move out and get away.

And if a double decker bus kills the both of us...

While I don't mean the one about the bus, it's a little worrying, that they're so close to the truth but they're joking.

I said, as they were laughing, that one day, I'm going to stop going downstairs to socialise, and they'll all ask why I'm not spending time with them, and I'll reply 'remember every time I did and you ended up laughing and teasing me?'

I hate to say it, but I think that was the breaking point. Every time I spend any time with them, I end up upset, and they never understand why. Always tell me to get over it, but it isn't a choice. Like Moony doesn't choose to have anxiety.

My brother even asked why I was so quiet, after they'd stopped laughing.

As if none of them had noticed how tight I held on to my cup, how I never actually shout, but I was shouting to try to get them to understand that just because I grew up in a house where everyone is teased, it doesn't mean that I'm used to it.

I know it's known that once you leave something, you realise how much you miss it, but I feel caged, I can't spend time downstairs in the living room because I'm made to feel like less of a person because I get offended easily, because I've never liked jokes that rely on picking on a weak aspect of someone.

I'm a prisoner in my own home, and isn't that fucking tragic.

It's just a comic.

So this man is Judge Dredd, the guy I've been spending a lot of time watching, reading and sometimes dreaming I am. He's a total git, and not a very nice guy, but as I said before, he does his job well and he's just trying to make Mega City One a better place.

But one thing that keeps making me laugh, and I'll probably never stop laughing about it, is his hatred of Batman.

He really hates the guy, because he's a vigilante and because Judge Anderson who is perfect stole him instead of him doing time because Dredd was being a sulky bitch and refusing to actually help him save Gotham. The first time they meet, they actually spend the first few pages fighting and insulting each other. I could have read an entire comic about it. There's a picture some way down of their meeting.

Today, I wandered downstairs for breakfast and tea, and there was another Dredd and Batman comic waiting for me, and I swear - and this is a show of how they feel toward each other - that the plot is Dredd cutting across universes to get revenge, because he's still bitter that Batman didn't serve his time. He really hates vigilantes.

I didn't open the comic, because it's in a plastic sleeve, and there's old yellowed tape holding it shut so dust doesn't get on it. The comic itself looks to be in pretty good condition, and the tape doesn't look like it's been touched in years. So yeah, it's probably there for me, but I can't be sure. My brother came downstairs and asked if it's mine, since it wasn't his. I'm guessing dad left it there, or some wonderful being heard I like Dredd and left me a gift, either way.

From 'Judgement on Gotham'. They really have issues.

When I explained why I haven't opened it, he said the tape isn't that well put on, so why not. He doesn't get that stuff like this, it's special to me. I want to protect comics. I have two or three original Thor comics that are in dire need of being put in some sleeves, and it worries me to think about them.

His words, and you may have guessed them from my title were 'it's just a comic'. Really offhand, like there was nothing interesting about the book on the couch.

But to me, it really isn't. Like everything I love, a comic is a way to escape for a little while. It's a way to find out more about a character I adore. Dredd's a right bastard, to be sure, and we're not supposed to really be on his side, because although I don't break laws, he's probably hate my outlook on life. Batman compares him to the Gestapo at some point, which is probably more accurate that I'd like to think about.

But it isn't just a comic. It never is. People have put a lot of time and effort into every comic that comes out, scripting it, plotting it, drawing and inking. The epics, the stories that cover months, they take careful planning. Calling it that, like it's nothing, is not only disrespectful to the way I had been laughing and voicing my thoughts minutes before-hand as I tend to do when overrun with emotions about something, excited as I looked at the cover and murmured 'Joe what the fuck do you think you're doing, this isn't how a Judge is meant to behave, you're such a git', but it's also disrespectful to the people that put the work into it.

I have a lot of feelings for comics, for the way they transport the reader for a litle while, and how safe and comfortable I feel when I'm in a comic store. It's quickly becoming a small hope of mine to work in one when I move. Brighton has to have a comic store. If it doesn't, I'll try for Orbital Comics in London, I don't mind.

So it's never just whatever it is that somebody is claiming not to be important. It exists because people put care and time into it, and that makes it something.

Suicide, and why it's a bad idea.

There isn't any real message to this post apart from the fact that it's about you. Yeah, you, the kid staring at this screen, maybe in a bad place, maybe alright at the moment. Either way, this is for you, if you ever need it.

Everybody matters. Every single person is important. A lot of people really close to me have been in bad places where it doesn't seem like such a bad idea. Hell, I've almost ended up there sometimes, but they've all got through. And you can as well.

As a close friend of mine told me, and I'm sure he won't mind my quoting him, and repeatedly using his ideas here. 'You are made up of particles that once were, and one day again will be, stars. Some part of our universe combined in an incredibly precise manner at incredible odds, to create you, and to shape you into who you are.'

And it'd be a shame to throw that away.

There are a lot of things that are wrong with the world, and I'm sorry that some of it happens to you. I won't pretend it's going to get better, because it might not. The world doesn't turn on fairness, after all.

It comes down to if you can stand to continue, and if you can't.

Whatever's happened to make you feel how you do now, I can't take it away, make it better. But there's going to be something around that you wouldn't have had if you gave up. Be it a glass of orange juice that tastes perfect, or a sunrise on a shitty morning. It's not much, but it's something.

And everything that led up to this moment in your life, if you're reading this in that bad place or somewhere else entirely, it made you the fantastic person you are today. And if you think you're not that fantastic, I do. I really do. Because as The Doctor says, he's never met someone in all his 900+ years of travelling that isn't important. We all have our part in life, and you're doing yours awesomely.

So find something to distract yourself from whatever you want to do to yourself, if you can. Listen to a new band, read, draw and try to decide what the shapes mean, dance. Dress up, go make yourself a cup of tea. If you'd rather just curl up, cry it out, that's good too. It's a good stress-reliever.

I don't know if this helps anyone, but just know that I care, if you found this by accident, or if you have it saved away for when you need it, and you're more than welcome to send me a message if you're in a bad place. I'm easy to talk to, honestly, and we can trade life stories until you realise I'm really lame and can't stop laughing at my stupid jokes, and forget about your incredibly valid reasons for not wanting to play ball with the world any more.

Focus on the fact that despite everything, you're alive. You're here, reading this. And all those things you're feeling are legitimate. They aren't stupid, or ridiculous. If they matter to you, then they're very real, and you don't deserve to be judged because some people don't have the same problems as you. People that tease you, they're bastards, ignore them.


Most people are so preoccupied with living that they never stop to consider what it is to be alive. So pay attention to being alive, because I'm so fucking glad you are.

In the making.

It isn't very often that I focus on the negatives, in myself or in others, but right now that's what I'm going to do. Ask anyone, I'm known for being incredibly reluctant to point out bad traits in anything or anyone, no matter how bad they may be. Moony usually says I'm full of shit when I try to defend somebody when that person clearly doesn't deserve defending, and she's probably right.

But it has to be said, I'm a hypocritical coward. Nobody is perfect, after all.

I spend so much time believing that people should be themselves. No apologies, no regrets. Hell, my entire philosophy is that you know what's best for you, so you have to do it. You do you.

But when it comes to me, I can't do it. I can ask my school to change my name, I can speak to my friends and stand in front of a class to talk about being trans* and ask for awareness, but when it comes to my own family, the people I've known all my life, I can't do anything about what they say.

Moony called it abuse once, verbal and psychological abuse. To be honest, I'd never considered it could count as that, but then I realised that's what a lot of kids/people who get abused probably think. My therapist agreed with her. I'm not really used to any other family life, so it's the norm for me. When I see Moony's family I'm struck by how everyone hangs out with each other, and how her brother comes and visits even when he doesn't live there, or they hang out in the kitchen. I've never had that, and that's a shame, but it's made me determined that my own kids won't ever have to feel like that.

My friends are all aware of the 'this week on how my family sucks' imaginary show that I update every Monday with events over the weekend, but I only ever just stand and take whatever they have to say. I stay silent, I nod, I piss them off because my only reactions are nodding and 'yes, I know' in varying degrees of frustration as I wait to be excused.

However, I finally made a step a few months back. I got my name-change papers. I paid £54 for everything I needed, and got my friend in Norfolk to sign as a witness because you have to be over 18, and Zed's mum turned down my request because she supports me but doesn't want to go against my parents. Admirable.

I am legally Lorcan Peter [first name removed]. The papers actually say I have to refuse everything to do with my old name. So I'm breaking the law by answering to it when my parents call it out. Dredd would probably throw me in iso cubes overnight or something.

And my parents don't know. My bank doesn't know. I haven't told anyone that actually needs to know except my school, and watching my name change on the register made me cry.

Me and Moony are going to tell them in a few weeks, when she visits. I'm terrified, really, of what they'll say when she's gone. But I've done it, I can't go back. I'm not changing my mind, no matter how much they go on about how I'm just a kid and I don't know what I want.

The human mind is developing until the age of 25-26 or something, and that is the time it will mature, if ever. So yes, my thoughts and ideas will change as I grow up, but this has been a part of me all my life. And I've known my identity since I was 14, and all that's happened is I've become more sure of it.

More sure that every time I hear 'she' directed at me I tense up, and that if I were happy with my given gender, that wouldn't be the case.

Maybe one day they'll see that.

But back to the topic at the start, about how cowardly I am sometimes: I've been writing this post since July. And it's only now that I've felt brave enough to post it. I only just decided to hell with it, because it feels like saying it here, on the line, it makes it a little more official. And while I'm terrified about how my family will take it, I get giddy whenever I look at the papers. I did the right thing. It was worth almost completing the form 20 times before I finally just did it, worth the stressed tears and freak-outs Moony probably remembers.

Because this proves I'm serious. I'm doing this. My old name was nice, but it wasn't me. This is.

except my life, except my life, except my life.

There's a scene in Hamlet, Act II scene somethingearlyon, when Hamlet is pretending to be insane so that... actually, I don't even know why. He thinks it's necessary to help him exact revenge, probably. But it's a bit of a stupid move. Still, little Hamlet can do whatever he thinks helps, bless.

In the scene, he's pretending to read, mocking Polonius, the advisor for the king and father of Hamlet's sort-of love interest. Hamlet really doesn't like him, and makes that subtly clear through word play. I won't bore you with the entire scene, but David Tennant did a fantastic version of it in a BBC drama that's on youtube, and it's hilarious. But I am going to give you the last few lines, to help what I'm trying to say.


POLONIUS: (after some stuff that isn't important) My honourable lord, I will most humbly take my leave of you.
HAMLET: You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal - except my life, except my life, except my life.


My teacher pointed out something that instantly struck true to me, and is the main reason I'm going on about Shakespeare right now. While Hamlet is pretending to be insane, and this is a little weird, old Will wouldn't have written it without a reason.

Either he's saying, after he's slyly told Polonius to fuck right off out of his sight, that Polonius took his life away by keeping him from talking to Ophelia, or.

Or. [Dramatic pause that isn't so dramatic.]

If you read the repeated line out loud three times, it starts to sound less like 'except' and more like 'accept'. As if, through the guise of his loose thoughts, he is asking Polonius to accept his life, his choices.

Because Hamlet's a troubled kid, his dad's dead, his mum's sleeping with his uncle, everything's upside down. He really isn't the fighter his dad used to be, and he's conflicted. I get that.

Nobody cares about what Hamlet thinks about what's happening, they all either tell him to suck it up and get over his dad's death, or don't realise there's anything wrong at all. I recognise that, in a way.

I guess, though it doesn't sound as impressive once I've typed it out, that I just really sympathise with Hamlet, and I admire him.

So, tragic little probably 30 years old isn't so little Hamlet, I accept your life, and I get your wishes that the father figures in your life would, too.

He is the law.

I think, at this stage in my interests, it’s about time to discuss Judge Dredd. Sorry in advance, but this is a comic series I have a lot of love for right now. That, and I'm several days behind on blog posts. So you'd better watch out, I'm going to throw a lot of my own thoughts and ideas around now.

Once of the best things about Dredd is the realism of it. It’s set in Mega City One, after most of the world has been destroyed for some reason that might be about chemicals or something. Outside the mega cities is the Cursed Earth where nobody lives or goes. Mega City One stretches from what used to be Washington to Boston, and there are a lot of people living there. Like, 75,000 citizens. Entire megablocks that can house cities in themselves, full of everything so you don't even need to leave the block if you don’t want to.

It presents a future where everything has gone to shit, and sure, it isn't a great one, but it’s also creepily accurate with the way our world is coming along. And that’s what’s awesome. It doesn't show off a fancy future where everything is lovely, like in Star Trek. I still love Trek, don’t get me wrong. But Mega Cities seem more like where life is heading. Not that we can't extend outwards into the stars, too. Hell we'd need to.

And Joe Dredd – whose name I will never get used to, it’s the lamest thing – is just a normal guy. He’s human, he’s got his own problems. If you cut him, he’ll bleed. And his life is dedicated to cutting down the lawbreakers in the city. It’s not a glamorous job, or a nice one, but somebody has to do it, and he’s the best of the best.

He pretty much has a weird friendship with a woman named Judge Anderson, too, which is sweet. But he’s totally human, he gets angry at things, he understands the law better than himself, and he frowns really really hard at literally everything. And he's sarcastic/sassy as hell.

But an awesome thing about the comic is that he ages properly.  Every year that passes in this world, passes in his own. So he’s actually getting on a bit. There are jokes at the moment that maybe he should let someone else take over, and I think he got diagnosed with some cancer or brain issue fairly recently, but it can be resolved with surgery, so he'll be alright. He has been going a long time.

And the gender equality is wonderful. Judge Anderson is a psychic, and when she's interrogating a criminal in a cell and he starts fighting back, two Judges outside consider helping, but one says she's capable and to not bother, and that's fantastic. Sure, she's also drawn in the half-light with only what barely counts as underwear on in Judgement On Gotham, but it's drawn classy as fuck, and you don't actually see anything, even if it's unnecessary, and Dredd gets a full body shot where his leathers are very tight between his legs, so it feels evened out a little.

The Dredd stories are rarely happy, and I'll be the first to admit they often end badly. But that's another good point in my eyes. The hero is a normal guy wrapped up in armour behind a visor, but he still goes out every day and fights. In one of the christmas annuals, this guy sets off a bomb in a megablock, and they stop the other two, but not that one. And it sucks, it really does, but it mirrors how things really are. They can't get to everyone, he isn't always going to win. And that's usually read by kids around Christmas. The stories never pretend everyone can be saved.

I have a gold - slightly smaller than regulation - Dredd badge on my coat, and I've never worn a badge so damn proudly, because I feel like I can get a lot of strength from him. There are 12 serious crimes reported every minute in that city. That's 17,000 per day, and the Judges only get to around 6%, but that doesn't stop him going every day, fighting crime and being the best of the best. His belief in right and wrong amazes me, and I'm endlessly admiring of him.

As I stupidly told my parents yesterday, and received a short 'don't become obsessed' speech from them for my efforts, Dredd is my hobby at the moment. Dredd's my life, because I've mentioned before about doing what works for you. You do you. And right now, Dredd works, keeps me going. I have a massive amount of comics to go through now, and while it stems from the Karl Urban starring movie from last year, I love the comics in a way I haven't loved comics for a while. I said I wanted to get back into that genre, and here it is.

Double standards and public assumptions.

When I have kids, I'm going to teach them about double standards, and assumptions when they might be hurtful.

For example, I'll never tell the kid that they aren't allowed to wear the deodorant of whatever gender they aren't identifying as because they are not that gender and never will be, only to wear it myself at a later date and complain about it as if the conversation never happened.

I won't tell them to wash all their stuff up themselves and then leave my own in the sink for someone else. Or ask them not to eat things I've paid for myself and then eat their food.

Because what kind of a lifestyle is that promoting to the kid who's young and impressionable, or worse still, the kid who's in their late teens or early twenties, who can see what a load of crap it is to make demands and move against them as if you're above them?

That makes the kid feel like they're something less than equal in the family, and that's one way to make that kid feel something less than equal in the world.

Likewise, I'll teach that kid (or those kids, let's keep options open) to never just assume somebody's gender, because that's a sure-fire way of making that person feel like shit.

To pick an example seemingly at random; a quick survey, when every question is asked, including age, family size, shopping experience. I'll teach that kid that if they're ever doing those, or know someone who is, they should voice every question, not make an assumption on what gender somebody is by what they think is probably right. If that person is dressed in a masculine way, very clearly has a flat chest and low voice, surely they should be 'male'. Better yet, why not ask? Because that way that person is more inclined to answer honestly rather than make up any answers to the following questions in an attempt to get out of there, and that sample is thereby ruined. Because it was ruined the minute they put the wrong gender in the box. This may or may not be the entire core of the post.

An example like that is a very quick method to ruining a trans* person's day. Someone who's happy in the gender they were born as would probably shrug such an assumption off, grump or laugh about it but ultimately forget it. A trans* person may end up going home and spending a large space of time staring a themselves, wondering what more they can do to be read how they want, and ultimately end up doing everything to avoid doing anything like those surveys again for that one question, where there are only two boxes and very rarely an 'other' option.

Egotistic or Interesting?

It's somewhat interesting how blog posts can be sparked into my imagination by nearly anything. This time around, totally unplanned, is a conversation I just had with my parents. It was about blogs, and why people write them. I ended up slightly offended and, naturally, decided to blog about it, in a totally non-ironic way.

The conversation revolved around Wil Wheaton, best known for his role in Stand By Me and as ("Shut Up") Wesley Crusher on Star Trek: The Next Generation, and internet sensation as described by Sheldon Cooper. I received one of his books today, called Just A Geek. I read it a few months ago after going to Reading for a University Open Day in which I never actually entered the Uni building and spent the whole time with a friend I was visiting in her dorm room and in the town. There, I found Wil's book in Waterstones, and stole borrowed the online reading code from the back, so it already has some sentimental value before I've actually read through it, and is why I can defend it.

His book is about his blog, more or less. He describes what his thought process was to begin with back in July 2001, how it changed over the years, how his own life changed and he became more confident in himself. I don't know about anyone else, but I think that's wonderful. It's almost painfully personal sometimes in the best of ways, and realistic as all hell in describing how difficult it can actually be to get work as an actor, how tough things can get.

Here's where things got difficult.

My dad commented on how self-obsessed someone has to be to write a blog in the first place, to actually think anyone gives a shit about what they have to say. I disrespectfully disagree. I write a blog because I want to get my thoughts into words, because it's a kind of therapy for me to feel like it's there, I've said it, even if nobody hears. Like talking to your pet or posters because at least you're talking. I'm not self-obsessed, and if anyone does read this, more than the few people I personally know, I hope you get that, and that I'm not doing this entirely to be 'heard'. If I help someone, I'm pleased, even emotionally compromised about it, because I wish I'd had someone around to rely on in my bad times like this, to make like a masterpost for dysphoria. If not, that's cool too. My viewings baffle and humble me every time I look at them.

Some people might write blogs for the attention, and maybe that's how Wil started, to prove that quitting Star Trek wasn't a mistake, but it's also a way for him to show he's still around, and people genuinely love hearing about what's going on in his life. That's not self-obsession, that's proving himself, and it's fact.

And surely it isn't 'the new height of self-obsession' to write about how your blog adapted over the years if people honestly want to know about it. He has a massive following, and all of them really care about him by choice. He isn't imagining people read his blog, the comments and fanbase prove they are.

What's even worse is to assume people write these as a bid for attention, the likes of which they could only have gained by doing outrageously bad things like a killing spree to get noticed. That's just not on.

So maybe it's just me getting easily riled by my parents, always wanting to argue against what they're saying and protect my idols, but I really don't think everyone writes a blog because they're incredibly egotistical and self-obsessed. Or maybe that's just me.

What is this? What is this?

Story time, with Lorcan.

At group, a few months ago, the session started with Richard gesturing at a sheet of paper, several paints, highlighters, pens, and so on. He said we were welcome to draw whatever we wanted, if we wanted, and either use individual sheets or the main page, and then we'd analyse it. Apparently it's a good outlet if you don't know what you're feeling. Maybe it's a load of crap, but it's fun as hell, and making up what it could mean is interesting.

My first piece was the name 'Lorc -A- Dork' in gold, in the middle of the page. It was a joke from a livechat with Ivan, Taggles (a friend of ours) and some others he knew. I also drew a star, the starfleet symbol, a rainbow, and what was supposed to be the symbol from Teen Wolf, but ended up more like the female reproductive system, much to my friend's amusement. Like so:

As you can see, my art skills are not what they apparently were two years ago. That's not my original representation, but it's pretty much the same. I tried to draw it and failed entirely.

We discussed how my name was clearly big on my mind, the star is legit a connection to my given middle name, the rainbow is my gay, and that? I just wanted to draw Derek Hale's tattoo, but maybe I have more on my mind than Tyler Hoechlin's back.

I also drew the TARDIS with 'gay' coming out of it in gold, glittering letters from the light.

Later on, I drew this.

Apologies for image size; my phone sucks.

The orange guy was added one somebody asked if that was the hill Jack stands on in Nightmare Before Christmas.

And I realised it was. I'd unintentionally drawn that scene, when he's wondering if Hallowe'en is what he really wants and so on. It's been a while since I saw it, so my knowledge is sketchy.

I started with glittery-green, because I love glitter and find it wonderful. Then a dark blue, because it's my favourite colour, it's stereotypically male. Then I varied, pink and purple, both colours I like but don't wear much. Maybe at my heart I want to be who I am, the out-there kind of guy who will run around in glitter, but I have that feminine side, still, obviously. Everyone who knows me knows I can't be 'masculine' to save my life.

But as we talked, I had that legitimate eureka moment, where I understood, because Jack is raised in a world where everything is spooky and nobody is truly happy about mundane things, unless it's mundane by the town's standards, and he really doesn't fit in, because he doesn't get that as much as they do. Then he finds the Christmas town, and though he goes about it all wrong, he realises that's what he wants.

And he struggles with it, because nobody ever goes against the town like that.

I get that. I'm sure a lot of people do.

Free to be you and me.

In my English Literature class today, we were discussing Hamlet, and his many issues. I put forward the idea that Hamlet has a lot of feelings, and that's one of his strong points, because he's passionate, but just not always about the right things such as his mother. I suggested that with his father's ghost hanging over him, every joke intended, and sharing his name, he's become used to being told how to behave, what to do. That he isn't used to being his own person and isn't even sure how do it. I realised as I spoke that he doesn't realise who he is.

My teacher said it was brilliant, that Lorcan could go home and have a lay down, because he hit the nail on the head. He repeated my words, said 'he doesn't know who he is!! Do you know who you are, Lorcan? Well of course, you're Lorcan!' and I honestly answered 'not really, no,' because I'm not sure at all.

Mark, my teacher, said that's fine, he wasn't sure himself, and I still don't know if he was talking about himself or me, because he's in the English department, and I know my transition has been a topic of discussion. When I started his class I gave my name as Lorcan but it wasn't that on the register, and he didn't say anything, so I assume he knows.

But here's my main point, the reason I'm writing a post at nearly 1AM other than my remembered promise to do so daily and being held up by media work. I really don't know.

So I thought I'd take into consideration the things I do know about myself.


I'm trans*, in whatever way I feel like on the day. Queer, genderfucked, everything under the umbrella and none of it in equal measures.

I'm not planning to stick around with my family too long, if I can help it. I can't be totally certain about my uni yet, because things change.

I'm easily obsessed and led, and will always have a fondness for sci-fi and comic books, and musicals.

I'm in love.

I'm happy with my current name, and though I'm not happy being addressed at home by my given name, I am slowly finding peace with it. Maybe peace enough to one day admit it to people who've never called me by it. To suppress a flinch and shiver when people use it in connection to anyone else.

I'm unstable, and I'm not sure how to fix it yet, but I'm working on it, slowly.

I'm falling behind on coursework, slightly, because I have no real direction or purpose to it yet. But there is still time.

I  honestly love Shakespeare, and those plays and sonnets bring more enjoyment to me than should be healthy for a 17 year old, I'm sure.

I prefer Pepsi to Coca-cola, and I'm not ashamed of it. This is apparently a big deal according to my best friend, who almost defriended me on the spot.

I'm easier affected by other people than many assume. And I rarely stand up for myself when it comes to people who really matter in my life.

I form strong emotional relationships with characters and draw on them for strength. I may elaborate about this on another day.


Some of these are less serious, I'll leave them to you to decide. But when I honestly consider it, there's so little that I can be sure of on days where no pronoun quite sits right, when I can't see where my life is going and  I'm not sure where my place in my friendship group is because everyone has their best friend, and I have two, but they seem more valued, sometimes. This is no judgement on them, more on my own struggles.

As a first day of the month blog post, I feel like I did fairly well. But I should really sleep, because I already regret this tomorrow.