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Abel Barbin (b. Adélaïde Herculine Barbin)
B. 11.8.1838 Saint-Jean-d’Angely, France / D. 2.1868 Paris
Suicide / Oil Stove

Ever since I got into bed last night I’ve been meaning to cut an inch off the clitoris in the Christine Jorgenson obituary. What now?—I wonder through a flat day leavened only by wishes that a particular female-to-male transsexual future lover whom I could make my fiancé(e) would appear, as if through supernatural means. Am I fooling myself? Am I the one—another one—in the wrong body? Is it coming time for my own reassigning? Maybe so. And yet I manifestly refuse almost every opportunity to practice with tangible devices what I reach for in the closets of my mind. It’s nothing—
Tony Blair—who is Tony Blair now? He’s wondering—that’s his day too. Under Clinton, it was easy. He was vice-president. But Clinton was a hippie with a thing for England and the British Labor Party—always thought the whole scene was groovy and wanted to make it. George Bush is from Texas—again. To him England resembles nothing so much as a tiny twitching mummy—a global novelty act powered solely by infusions of American sufferance—dancing on our strings. Which makes of Tony Blair— a sequin.

Consolation Site: History Makes Me Horny

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