The saddest goddamn playlist

I’m drinking tea. I drink tea when I’m depressed. Does the tea cause depression, or does depression make me brew tea? Anyway, I recommend PG Tips with whole milk if and when you’re depressed.

The author in the morning, enjoying a cup of tea.

It’s late. It’s almost midnight. I’m sober. I thought that not getting fucked up on weed and red wine would encourage me go to bed earlier. But I’m awake.

Robyn, my new, post-Avery moviegoing trans girlfriend, texted to ask if I wanted to see Blue Velvet on Thursday. The first time I saw Robyn, Hamlet was giving her a tour of his house at his Memorial Day party. I thought she was cis. She was such a babe.

She was also depressed. I wasn’t; Christine and I loaded up on so much MDMA we were up until 6. I played with her pussy, the first trans pussy I’d ever played with, the first pussy I’d put my fingers inside since 2002. Earlier that night, we’d put on a show in the suburban living room for cis spectators. Stripped down to my bra and panties, I licked and sucked Christine’s massive tits and she moaned. High quality entertainment, all for free. We need to start charging.

Robyn had left well before that part of the night. That night, I learned she was funny, sweet, smart, and haunted. She was also sad, and there was no getting her out of it that night.

Fuck. I would love to see Blue Velvet in Oakland with my passable, haunted trans friend.

I’m stuck at the top of this hill. And tonight it’s my turn to be depressed.

I have a playlist on. I call it “Saddest Goddamn Playlist.” It’s not organized — did you expect me to craft a path from depression to desolation by way of dispiritedness when I’m feeling like this? But my god, are these sad songs.

(As I grabbed that link, I flipped over to the internet. I have to ask: Why are all my targeted ads about retirement? I did recently see one aimed at professional women re-entering the workplace. That hit the bullseye. But this retirement stuff… somehow it hurts my feelings. I’m not obsolete, am I? My tastes aren’t that old fashioned, are they?)

The way I see it, I’ve got two types of problems, local and general. First, the local. I’m living by myself in a beautiful spot with no trans friends nearby. I was supposed to leave Friday for surgery. That’s not happening. I’m fasting. Not eating food, if you can believe it, does nothing to improve your mood.

Then there’s the general. I’m trans in a world unfamiliar with, and frequently unkind to, trans people. I’m early stages trans, which means I can’t pass for shit if I don’t go out in full makeup and my hair did. I’m living a new life full with challenges both difficult and novel.

I asked Robyn tonight if cis people have it easier. “Everyone’s got problems, but ours can be special.”

Special problems. Yeah, that feels right.

Do those problems have a solution?

As I walk around the world, I do math. That’s not me bragging; you wouldn’t like it if you did it. When I see a string of numbers or letters, I add operations — multiplication, subtraction, exponents, whatever — to turn it into an equation. I need it to add up.

This appetite, this desire to make it make sense, is part of being a human. We have built institutions, cultures, governments, all with the lead goal of distilling our human experience into bits that makes sense, simple premises we can cling to, that can guide us. The Catholic Church tells you that you are a sinner but can be saved. The United States of America tells you that all men are created equal. (Tee hee.)

There are easy and obvious complexities that show that those two value systems are at best misleading and at worst corrupt.

You know that. I know that.

There is no solution — that is my point.

Sometimes we pretend to have one. Whenever we’re not completely despondent, it’s because we are telling ourselves that there is a reason why everything is happening the way that it is.

I can play that game.

And I will.

Now.

Here’s my solution.

Be useful to people.

Experience their love.

Reflect it back at them.

Stay patient.

Wake up early and write.

Don’t take seriously any thought you have between 2 and 4pm.

Practice the piano.

Do your fucking taxes.

Oh, and go back up to the Bay. Your friends — like Robyn — are there.