My gender identity is something like a lump of clay that’s been sitting in a kiln, at a low temperature, for 24 years, gradually hardening (sort-of-pun-sort-of-intended).

I want to be a man.

You do?

I do.

You may kiss yourself.

I like my beard, I like my body, I like my…little boy below the equator. None of it needs to be altered or disguised or subdued. God’s been sending me fan mail. Really sweet stuff. Some of it doesn’t seem like the truth, but it is, and I’m starting to believe it.