Originally Posted by Ari Chi3fs (Post 4591834)

Maybe we could spark some magic with GoChiefs and UP? Love is in the air?

Originally Posted by blueballs (Post 4591867)

what did they do with your junk

Originally Posted by Rausch (Post 4591763)

No, apparently Kotter's just wallowing in that fresh "out of the closet" smell...

Originally Posted by Rausch (Post 4591763)

No, apparently Kotter's just wallowing in that fresh "out of the closet" smell...

Originally Posted by CrazyPhuD (Post 5739766)

ROFL now I want to know what UP was really trying to say....

Originally Posted by Ultra Peanut (Post 5739785)

I was trying to remember certain pertinent dates and decided to dig this up. Then I saw something funny and, seeing a thread with a bunch of pages and me as the OP, thought it was the wrestling thread.

How delightfully disparate and incongruous.

Originally Posted by Simply Red (Post 5739800)

Originally Posted by Ultra Peanut (Post 2463095)

So... I'm a girl.

I know I've posted lots of wacky shit here over the years. Sometimes out of boredom, sometimes because I'd really like to think I'm funny, and sometimes because I was just in the mood to do so. This isn't one of those wacky moments. This is me, taking a very small step towards doing something I've wanted to do and saying something I've wanted to say to someone, ANYONE, for the longest damn time.

Yep. I'm "coming out." I'm transgendered. "MtF," in popular parlance (figure it out). Gender dysphoric to the max! "Evil, demon-possessed, deluded homo." Whatever you want to call me. And no, not in the Eddie Izzard "executive transvestite" way. I mean the, "I've known and felt I was female, in some way, for as long as I can remember despite being born in a male body" way. The "lots of early suicides and lots of shattered lives due to not being accepted by friends and family" way. Now, why would a girl like me not want to shout about that from the mountaintops?

I have cringed every time I've been referred to as a "he," or a "him," or an "(insert masculine pronoun here)" over the entirety of my 19 years of "existence." Well, minus the first couple of years. I think it was an accomplishment to simply eat and crap my pants at that point (Does that look like I said I ate my pants when I was very young to you? It does to me.). Regardless, from my earliest memories, I can recall almost intuitively knowing, or somehow inferring from responses I got when engaging in "wrong" behavior, that I would be well-advised to drop it and act another way or face some sort of terrible consequences that I couldn't even imagine (and now, looking back, I don't know what punishment is worse than being locked inside a ****ing miserable, hollow shell of a life and sleepwalking through my days while fearing any social interaction and going into some hyper-alert state of panic during said interactions because I might do something to "give myself away," but the logic of a four year old carried over into real-life application for the following fifteen years isn't exactly amazing).

Funny thing is, I would always end up doing things to trip my plans up and make me ripe for identification. For instance, the 6th grade book fair. I was never well-liked by my classmates at the private school I had only just begun attending, and even though I'd been a good baseball player, my skills apparently didn't equate well to kickball. Every day, I thought I'd prove something to them. Every day, I sucked. I dunno, it was a weird time. Anyways, I had just enough change left over to buy a poster -- but not enough for a book -- at this book fair. I'm not sure what there was, but the only thing I could see myself spending my money on was a poster featuring a cute little polar bear cub. So I bought that one. What the hell compelled me to do this, when I knew full well I was already disliked and picked on? Like I said, I dunno. I made up some incredibly brilliant cover story about it being for my cousin, but it still didn't change the fact that I had to carry around that damn polar bear poster all day and be ridiculed by both boys and girls alike for it.

Okay, I'm rambling, and this is going nowhere. Long story short, I got another shot at another private school in the 10th grade. Quit by November, shortly before an awakening of sorts, due to mysterious reasons like, "it's too far from home" and the ever-incredible, "I just didn't like it." Why did I really quit? I was tormented every day, even though the people there were almost all pretty darn nice, even the ones I had gone to school with before (2nd-5th grades, my halcyon days if I ever had them) and hadn't been in the same circles with at the time. All around me were girls of all types, and I was completely out of place every single day. I didn't want to make out with them like my male classmates presumably did, I wanted to BE them. I wanted to be the somewhat geeky girl with the medium-length blonde hair and the thick glasses who loved Slipknot (okay, taste in music aside). I wanted to be the girl with braces and a very nice body and great, rusty blond-ish hair. I didn't want to be the girl with the pig-laugh as much as I wanted to be one of the aforementioned girls, but I'd have gladly accepted that, too.

For God's sake, how the hell could I have broken through that initial wall in the way of the seemingly unattainable goal of not being miserable? I mean, this is the first time I've ever even been able to TYPE it out, much less say it to someone, and I'm doing this in WordPad, and I'm not sure I'll even get up the nerve to C&P this over to the reply box. It is beyond ****ing torture to know who you are and are NOT and be told by society through years and years of conditioning that you MUST pretend to be the one you're not. It is immeasurably horrible to hide who you really are because you're scared you'll get into some sort of trouble or have things become even worse. But then, it's even worse to realize that YOU HAVE NOTHING EVEN WITH THE FACADE and still remain silent because you're so scared of what could happen to ruin an already ruined life.

I have finally decided to take that step because only now do I truly realize what I've lost and what I will continue to lose by lying to others. I've long since given up on lying to myself, but keeping secrets has never been my favorite thing, even if I'm prone to keep secrets in spite of myself; Come on, I kept the fact that my eyesight was terrible from my parents for six years. It's why I quit baseball in the first place (imagine almost hitting a home run but having it be snagged at the wall by an outfielder and being confused because you're trying to interpret signals from your coaches and teammates to tell you whether you need to round the bases or go back to the dugout). SIX YEARS. That's a pretty minor bit of information in the grand scheme of things, and here I am holding it in as if I were afraid of being labeled a freak like those poor transgendered people or som--oh, right. Damn. How the hell will I ever let that one out? :rolleyes:

Why all the boring backstory? Not sure. It isn't all that illuminating, in retrospect. I actually just chopped out a large chunk of it that did nothing but take up even more space. My hands are shaking, my spelling's shit, I've locked the cats out of this room which contains their food and litter box, and I know I've probably left lots of thoughts hanging despite the length... sorry for the generaly incoherency (hey, cool band name).

Okay, one very ironic aside before continuing. My bed sheets are pink. I originally acquired them on a temporary basis while washing my old light blue ones, but they're much more comfortable and, like I said, I love the irony and the in-joke aspect of the blue comforter on the outside and the pink sheets on the inside.

Anyways, I'm sure I'll regret posting this at some point in the very near future (like... hmm... now). But I've made up my mind after literally thrashing about my bed for long periods of time over the past twenty-four to thirty-six hours, yelling at my ceiling, at God or God know's what, or yelling at nothing in particular about "blue balloons" and "pink ballons" and why they make them and why I and so many others were put in the wrong ****ing pile, and HOW ****ING CRUEL CAN YOU BE TO KNOWINGLY DO THAT TO SOMEONE?! I had seriously reached a breaking point, and I wasn't sure if those idle thoughts of suicide would remain so idle anymore. So, I came to the conclusion that today is the big day, and hopefully not just on this forum or the internet in general.

Friday the 13th. As always, my timing is beyond impeccable. And even though Dave Chappelle just took a break from dealing with his own shit right now and called me from South Africa to remind me that you can sometimes keep it too real, I somehow thought the best way to jump into that vast ocean called "OMGWTFBBQ" was to post this somewhat anonymously (but with my intraweb cred at stake -- for a shut-in like me, that's big!) on a very lively SPORTS-driven message board with thousands of members.

I'm sure I'll be treated differently, and probably not in a good way, but oh well. If I never get a rep comment in which I'm referred to as "man" again, it'll be at least a little bit worth it. And I'm sure some people will feel free to tell me I'm evil or sick (and I am sick, in other ways that I suspect are caused by hiding my identity for my entire life -- wanna know why I'm so forgiving with Ricky Williams? Because I am absolutely positive that I've got Social Anxiety Disorder, which has a damn appropriate acronym, and I've been afraid to get it addressed because I was scared of this getting out along with it.) and going to hell or whatever, or if not tell me at least think it. That's fine. I may not ever be able to be a "regular" poster on what I've considered to be a great outlet again, and that's fine, too, even if it'll hurt a little and I'm sure I'll be upset when I feel rejected over this, even if only 1% were doing that and the other 99% said, "I don't profess to know what it's like or even to know much about it, but you go, girl." Yes, the last part was a joke. The "you go, girl," part anyways.

Like I said at the beginning of this novel-length... thing, I AM A GIRL. A nineteen year old girl with a very weird upbringing that she hated nearly every moment of and issues galore, to be sure, but yes, I am a girl. And being able to type that right now, after so long being unable to muster the strength, makes me feel like that misery was worth it.

So, there went nothing. My official entry in the "worst post ever" contest. I'm going to let the cats back in here so they can eat and and I'll go take a shower now. I'll check back in on the mayhem later.

Hoooooooly shit.

Originally Posted by GoBobDole (Post 2464256)

Psi feeling compelled to share that story is so damned inspirational that Bob Dole feels like sharing, too.

Just like Psi, Bob Dole has posted some wacky shit here over the past few years, with the primary difference being that Bob Dole is actually intelligent and funny (and as those of you who have met Bob Dole know, extremely handsome). And just like Psi, this isn't one of those moments. Bob Dole has wanted to share this since the old KC Star forum days, but hasn't had the nerve to admit it until reading this story (and having 4 beers). It truly is liquid courage!

Just like Psi, Bob Dole ate and crapped his pants at a young age, but unlike Psi, Bob Dole stopped before his 14th birthday. Just like Psi, Bob Dole is often miserable, but unlike Psi, Bob Dole chooses to ignore his frustrations and occupy his mind with women and alcohol instead of lounging on pink sheets throwing tantrums nobody can hear.

And unlike Psi, Bob Dole isn't rambling, so shut the **** up.

Bob Dole played kickball as a child, but Bob Dole ruled. Well, at least until that bitch Allison Devan wasn't paying any attention and ran face first into Bob Dole's upper lip and crammed one of her brace-enhanced ****ing rabbit teeth through Bob Dole's upper lip on his 9th birthday. Happy Birthday Bob! Hope you enjoy the smell of that sticky crap they put on with the butterfly stitches, as it will be your constant companion for the next 3 ****ing weeks. At least the stupid bitch managed to grow some decent tits later on and didn't have a problem sharing them. And doesn't everything in life come down to tit size in the end?

Still not rambling.

Bob Dole suspects that Psi also tried bowling, but sucked at it. Why else would there be no mention of bowling? On the other hand, Bob Dole was an excellent league bowler in his teens. The league secretary was a 40ish woman named Wanda who had an impressive rack. She was truly an inspiration, as only a nice rack can inspire a pubescent boy, if you get Bob Dole's drift. Bob Dole carried the third highest average in the league most seasons and used a 14 pound ball. It was about the size of one of Wanda's titties.

This is harder than Bob Dole thought it would be. Type type tpye, backspace backspace backspace, rinse and repeat. Damn this beer is good and cold. Bob Dole has an excellent refrigerator. It's a Whirlpool. Icemaker equipped. Almond in color. Handles installed on the left, thank you very much.

But back to the point, since just like Psi, Bob Dole wandered a bit. Bob Dole's sheets are white. Both sets. Cotton. Queen size with a decent thread count. Bob Dole is also white, but not as white as the sheets. Bob Dole likes them to be pressed when they come out of the dryer so they are nice and smooth and crisp. Of course, Bob Dole likes to think that every Thursday is Steak and a Blowjob day, but that isn't ****ing happening either.

Why all the boring backstory? Because it makes Bob Dole laugh knowing that you're actually reading this shit. Lemmings.

Just kidding. The backstory is important because it talks about titties and bowling and kickball. The backstory serves to illustrate that males in mid-america are fascinated with that stuff. And dodgeball. What the **** is wrong with all the people trying to ban dodgeball? They probably want to whack off their peckers, too.

Friday the 13th. Wow. Bob Dole can read a calendar.

(Other really interesting and entertaining stuff edited for brevity and saved for future use.)

Anyway, the primary point is that Bob Dole has been living a lie for more than 4 years, which is like 28 dog years. And Bob Dole has two dogs, so it's been like 56 years, which is a lifetime to almost everyone here but Skip. Bob Dole has come to think of two or three of you as almost decent human beings during the time here, and Bob Dole can't stand living the lie any longer.

Bob Dole's name isn't really Bob Dole.