That's what I was thinking. She can die alone and ovaryless. The problem is, my parents might not help me when I need care after my surgery. My wife divorced me when she saw me jerking it in her underwear, and my kids told me they aren't going to come over to clean my house and stuff for me when my crotch hurts too much to move. If my parents think I'm being *checks notes* "selfish and unfeeling," then they won't help me, either.
Ugh. Your wife is such a hypocrite. Part of me thinks she's jealous because she knows you look hotter in her clothes than she does. Let me guess: she never supported you pre-transition, either? Why do non-transwomen act like they don't also get extremely euphoric when the lace fabric on their panties or elastic band on their bras is visible?
Isn't it always the worst when the anti-trans rhetoric is coming from your own family? This is literally lifesaving surgery we're talking about. They should jump at the chance to bring you home from the hospital as your true authentic self to make up for misgendering you last time.
Girl, I know it's tough, but you got this. Hopefully you have some beautiful daughters (or sons with girlfriends) who are less transphobic. When they grow out of their clothes, I think it'd be a beautiful bonding experience to have a little fashion show with them. It'll help prepare them for when you pick them up from school and her little boy crushes are blown away at the choker and lipstick combo you're wearing.
I'm so happy for you, girl. I know it's tough now, but stay focused on the future when they learn to accept you. Imagine inviting your daughter's boyfriend over for dinner when basketball season is about to start. Imagine the look on her boyfriend's face when he hears you were captain of the football team, state champion wrestler, and even set the hurdles record for the state. "Whoa, you didn't tell me your foxy mom was such an athlete," he'll say. She'll get embarrassed as us young girls do, but it's only natural. "You think hot girls can't be competitive, too? Think again. Now watch me palm this basketball, Steve."
Girl - YOU. GOT. THIS.
Okay, story time:
When I had my bottom surgery, I knew it was my rebirth. Finally, I'd get to experience life as an official biological female.... starting as the baby I should've been. Plus my I forgot to cancel my subscribe & save for baby diapers on Amazon. 500 padded, rash-free, scented diapers - a sure sign that God is a trans-woman.
Anyway, I insisted the nurses roll ink on my feet and stamp them on my new birth certificate. You know, to make it official. I think they must've been TERFs or something because they completely missed my toes AND the balls of my feet (the only balls I had at that point). I tried having a girl-to-girl talk about how this was so important for my validation, she said something transphobic about my size 14 feet not fitting on the printout. I asked them why they held the paper hamburger style when hot dog would've gotten my cute little baby toes (painted my nails a hot sexy period blood red for the occasion, too). She said hot dog style wouldn't work because one of my feet would cover 3/4 of the width, but still not get my toes or bottoms of my feet.
I was livid at hearing such TERF talking points. Luckily (for her), she redeemed herself by saying, "plus, why hot dog style when you don't have a hot dog anymore." Man, the wave of post-surgery euphoria was incredible. She was right. I am truly a woman. One second, I wanted to kill her as any true and honest woman would. The next, my emotions flipped instantly - this is true female identity. We really are an emotionally flighty gender.
Now that I was almost calmed (and actively shitting in my diaper - ooops, IIIII diiid it uh-gaaain), I asked why they couldn't have gotten a bigger piece of paper for the certificate. After all, I told them how this was such a euphoric moment for me. She said they did, that it was the biggest one possible that would fit in their machine. As I continued filling my didey, I questioned why a modern hospital would have such a tiny, flimsy little printer.
"
You mean to tell me it can't even handle a baby girls wittle teensy-weensy-feetsies?"
She said it was quite large, the Xerox LaserJet Mega Printer 3000 or something. She said it prints 20,000 papers a day, can handle matte, glossy, and poster stock, and even has a full-time service technician who stays in the hospital.
If my brand new vagina wasn't my asshole in stitches, I would've taught her a lesson. Just because we're both women doesn't mean you can womansplain to me. Or is it mansplaining at this point? Wait, is this reverse transmisandrogeny? Honestly, I forget myself sometimes. I just know she needed her skull caved in by my pink TERF-bashing tire iron. Women like me need to stand up for all of us. TERFs know how vulnerable we are. I don't even have my trans-lady dick at this point, and she's doing EVERYTHING in her power to deserve choking to death on it.
Seriously. I couldn't believe it. Here I am, a literal newborn(again) woman being treated like some freak by what I thought was my sister. Instead of showing solidarity with me, what do I get for my efforts? I get a dose of transmisogyny with an extra helping of dysphoric triggering and a padded diaper filled with more oopsy-poopsies than she deserves to scoop out.
Anyway, my parents didn't show up to bring me home from the hospital, either. Crazy because you'd think they'd want to do it again the RIGHT way as my true authentic self. Wait, have I already said that? I can't remember. I'm on triple the HRT lately due to my libido dropping and this brain fog has me forgetting. Ugh, don't you hate PMS, ladies?
Anyway, xoxoxo
((( and I am going to report them to the cyber police so they and their transphobic asses can be frown in prison for life for harassing a valid and mega kawaii trans girl like me!11!!!!11!!! 
DDDD UwU.
)))
