It was a very bad year. It ended badly, or so it might have, yes possibly did already, or possibly has not even yet. 1974. I am a thirteen year old little girl. Maybe a dead girl.

Right now it might actually be 1974. Foolish! You say, for you know it’s not, that it is 2122 or 3145, or 2017. Whatever. Which is it? Is it any? Is it 695? Hmmm., 399 BC? Maybe I am Socrates, and I just drank your poison? Is it….0? Dunno? No, I do not know. It is very probable that it might be 1974 though, and I am thirteen years old, laying in a coma in Sacred Heart Hospital, in The Emerald City, dying. This future I lived is all in my mind. You are only in my dream. Just like all the people in last nights dream. You are little cells inside me that live life in my dream or dreams. You look just like the people I knew, or those I see from back then did, all grown now, most older ones now dead, but your not them. You are copies. Are you mad at me? Why am I in a coma?

Because I swallowed poison, but I did not really want to die!

And the odd thing is now, I am not really buying the whole dying scenario, not what it all seemed at least. Because I am not living in that body laying on that bed. I am in some sort of otherworld, and I have to be, by poison or bullet, something took me here. And maybe this is what death is? But then it is not what I thought. Not that I thought anything really.

Thirteen, the name means Thor, the year of Thor, the son of Odin. Can anyone write some other story besides Thor, Horus…Luke Skywalker, etc? It’s getting overdone it seems.

The Thirteen Club is when kids who are bullied beyond human tolerance kill themselves. We do not have the faintest idea what we are doing, we are just babies really. I regretted swallowing that poison right away, and It was not ME, not I that did it, but some malevolent force within me, honest! Something that was jealous of my existence, and wanted me dead. Something wicked that slid into me somehow and wanted to take my life. My cousin just died. She was shot in the head. Or was that me? I cannot tell. I think my cousin became part of me, or I became her, and I know everyone called me her name for a while, and I do not know why? No, not really. And why is her name tattooed on that skin? I have too many questions. I just want to live! Or is it 1969? Something tells me it is 1969 and the spring. He got out and got us! He got me!

It’s raining out.

Why was my innocence persecuted so horrendously? My body that did not conform to your society’s rules was a part. Being born a hermaphrodite was the main thing. But, of course it was something more far-reaching than this, something much, much bigger. Each year so many are born, and the doctors quickly cut and slice us sad babies to fit us in. Then they hide the records. From us, but you can bet your booty they are the talk of the town! The Catholic hospital, which means The Catholic Church knew all about this boy-girl born that 1960. So, like most of us in my particular small group, we were knocked into the ugly girl world, the boyish-looking girl that got tormented, persecuted in school. You cannot hide a secret like this in a university town run by the Catholics. My sweet Grandma was devout, but I think she is probably roasting in hell right this second. Something in me wants to say I hope not, but I do not know the truth yet, all of it. I will let him figure it out. She believed Jesus hated her, that is pretty sure. But why? That is what I would like to know. Hypocrisy most likely I would say.

Am I really a boy? No, I am not a boy, and I thought I was a real girl, and I never knew the issue until after this pseudo future decade of life past fifty or not, cause it still might be just The Nightmare Before Christmas in 1974. It honestly might. I now sorta feel like I am undefinable, unnameable, uncomprehensible. They took a little baby, as God made me and they cut out my testicle, and cut me and molded me into what they thought was only the girl of me left alive. They then watched me like a god-dammed lab rat, never telling me the truth.

In 1999 though I might be off a year, Dr. Patrick Diesfeld,  a Gynecologist in Ventura County, California, he further operated on my poor flesh, removing my uterus, and my ovotestes on the right side. The only people in the word who have ovotestes are binary or hermaphroditic individual, though the word individual is a joke in this sense is it not? So, the secret was out, I had ovotestes, and very strange scars that now seemed unusual, though carefully hidden.

Why do I have to conform to your rules of physical designation? Why must I be boxed into the BOY or GIRL box, when I do not fit? I am more than this. I am a true Queen in every sense of the word. I am.