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It's
Saturday night.

The streets are filled with drunkards. Sounds charming, doesn't it? The night, bubbling with cheering, inebriated assholes, accompanied by their cokewhore 1-night stands.

Yeah.

So: was at Mom's pretty much all week. We really didn't get anything done. I tried to take initiative, but, ultimately failed. So much for that.

Mom tells me that she won't be paying me, either. I guess this means I can't take the family-charity way out. I have to deal with a legal income. (Boo hoo?)

Man. I'm too fucking bloated to ramble tonight. Fucking period.

In summary: Mom and I, Mike and I, separately had heart-to-heart talks. Mom's was about Caesar -- got to find out more of his depravity; we talked a little about my insanity. The usual rah-rah-rah; this one summed up as, "You're SO fucking close to being normal." The footnote was, "You used to be good at hiding your problems; but, other than that difference, you're a lot like how we idealized you back then.. we ignored the depression, the anger."

Basically? Maybe this is why people find me more likable lately. The Lambert of old was a charming little shit. Lambert of new is working on that angle.

Mike basically said stuff about school. We ended up getting in to some personal stuff; he was too tired to be uncomfortable, me, I worried I was verging in to odd territory. I'm used to telling my close friends my personal stuff. Mike's the kind of kid that would joke with me about epic shits. We can't really joke about genital oddities, being siblings. (But I get away with that with Sarah, all the time. Don't believe me? Consider the time that I thought my labia were malformed ball sacs.)

Both ended up making comments about my new found masculinity. I, being the nervous twit I am, said something to the effect of, "What? Me, trying to be a guy? No way!" Yeah. I'm that kind of clever.

Issue is -- what AM I trying to be?

I'm not sure if I have the balls to pretend to be a guy, sans-deep voice. I have a serious sissy-chick voice. Makes me all kinds of sad.

I'm kind of in a "let's see what happens" mode. I get sideburns, make a chest-binder. Let's see what happens from there! You get the idea.

Mom's query started with, "Let me cut your hair next time.. something.. more feminine."

Ah, but, I couldn't out myself. Especially when I question my own motives.

I doubt I look like a guy. I probably still look like the impostor I feel I appear to be. Sneaky, Lambert, but, about as believable as the cops at the strip club: cut off shorts, and fuzzy handcuffs.

I just look like a really odd combo of male-female. I'm trying, and yet, I'm not really trying. I just think stuff up, and roll with it.

I am me. Better deal with it, motherfuckers.

You Missed:

*DISCLAIMER
* WHO TF IS ALL THIS??!
* INTRO, 2
* NAQ

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Circa 2010