Feed

Ask Alex if she will come by to feed Odin.

Buy extra cat food and litter so Alex doesn't have to.

Give her the spare key next time I see her.

Kiss Odin and tell her she is the best cat in the world, even if she has always been destructive like her namesake.

Fill out the final paperwork and mail it to the surgeon.

Go to the post office on Tenth Avenue and put a stop mail hold in place.

Stop worrying about the pain.

Stop thinking about the drains.

Call Mom and thank her for the card and the money and tell her she has been the best mother in the world.

Ask Lisa to stop calling me eight times a day because we broke up months ago, and I am sick of having to ignore her voicemails - and her texts.

Tell Julia I can't sleep with her anymore until she ditches that fake-blonde Pink-look-alike girlfriend who she is fucking around on.

Additional things to tell Julia if I ever see her again:

Tell her I want my hat back because it's my favorite one, and she had no right to keep it in the first place. Also, tell her I saw her girlfriend sitting in front of a coffee shop wearing my hat, and that hurt almost more than anything else she's put me through, which is a lot.

Fucking with people's hearts for no good reason is a douchy thing to do, and it will come back to haunt her.

Her cute looks will one day fade, and she will only be left with her personality, which could use some work.

I'm glad we split up because, like Jerry said, she's an emotional vampire.

Tell the surgeon about my drug allergies.

Vacuum the apartment before leaving for the airport.

Eat food in the fridge before leaving so it doesn't rot and stink up the place.

Have sex with Alex one more time before the operation, preferably at my place, so her boyfriend doesn't show up again unexpectedly.

Kiss Alex goodbye and tell her how pretty she is, in case the surgery kills me.

Stop worrying that the surgery could kill me.

Remember that people die from getting struck by lightning and that everything seems completely random at the end of the day.

Pee before leaving for the airport so people don't stare at what they think is a man going into the women's bathroom.

Drink lots of water before getting on the plane.

Don't panic when the plane doors close.

Take a Valium if I feel like I am going to die.

Remember not to care what other people think.

Shave, even though I have no facial hair yet.

Get my hair cut short so I don't have to worry about cutting it for another six weeks.

Pretend I'm not nervous when anyone asks me about the operation.

Don't stay awake when I go to bed thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

Be happy that the surgery date is almost here.

Donate my old binders to a guy in need.

Throw out any old grey sports bras with a slam dunk into the dumpster.

Go to the FTM group one last time and thank everyone for their support.

Remember to pack a spare set of contacts.

Put passport in my jacket pocket, not in the suitcase.

Think about writing a will.

Cross writing a will off the list because I have nothing to leave anyone.

Don't feel bad about having nothing to leave anyone.

Remember, the chances of dying are slim.

Tell James I will get in touch with him when I get back so he can take me out for that congratulations-- you're-getting-your-tits-cut-off drink he has been promising to buy me. Also, tell him I miss having sex with him but that I'm still glad we are friends.

Tell Danny I can't bowl for at least six weeks, but I will watch him and the other gutter girls fail miserably on Sunday morning when I feel well enough to go.

Ignore the phone when it rings because it is probably just Lisa calling to see if she can say goodbye - again.

Walk to the grocery store the long way to get some exercise, and so I can see that cute barista who works at the Capitol Hill Vivace.

Order a coffee from her even though I know it will keep me awake.

Smile at the cute barista if she smiles back at me.

Remember when my chest is finally flat to ask the cute barista out.

Put any spare change in my pocket into the guy's guitar case on Pine because he plays great and always smiles when I walk by.

Look up instead of down.

Pack two books for the trip in case the first one doesn't hold my attention.

Call Jerry and see if he is free to meet me at Pike Place Market for a drink and walk around and stare at things like tourists for a few hours like everything is normal.

Be normal.

Stop worrying so much.

Touch my tits in the shower one last time in order to remember one day what it was like to have them.

Imagine how great it will feel once they are gone.

Smell Alex in the crook of her neck and see how easy it is to recall her scent as they put me under.

Tell Liz, who works at the sex toy store, that I'm sorry I didn't want to have sex with her last year at her birthday party because I didn't feel butch enough.

Apologize to myself for never feeling butch enough.

Remember how good it felt not to wear a shirt outside when I was ten, and I didn't know I wouldn't grow up to be male.

Say a small prayer before they put me under because even though I don't believe in god anymore, it certainly can't hurt.

Remember, if I do die and there is a god, to ask him why he bothered making trans people at all if he never makes mistakes.

Try to avoid negative people, especially the ones who say they aren't.

Be thankful as often as I can.