So I stared at the half-feminized face in the bathroom mirror.
I didn’t see a factory robot. I didn’t see a potential assailant. I didn’t see a ghost. I didn’t see one-note Adam, the ugly, hairy, depressed lump-of-shit “ogre” and “Frankenstein” and “Undertaker” whose only redeeming feature was being able to perform manual labor for money.
I saw S. A. Hunt, the attractive, complex intellectual who looks good in an empire waist and choker, who wrote all those books and has lots of cool friends and spends their days writing in the local-hangout coffee shop.
I saw Sam, the graceful cryptid that loves ducklings and good coffee and rainy days and mellow folk-rock music from the 60s.
I cast off the worthless husk of my old one-sided lie of a facade, and found the child of Aphrodite and Hephaestus looking back at me, a rock-and-roll demigod with black-painted nails and anvil fists.
I finally made eye contact with my soul for the first time.
And it was exhilarating. Intoxicating.