Appetite for thought

I like to destroy stuff. This revelation came to me as I used the circular saw to slice up the deck in my backyard. It was awesome: I wielded the power to destroy what the crackheads who lived here before me had wrought so carelessly and half-assed like I was born to it. I can see now why my mother is so insistent on being the one to wield the sledgehammer most of the time. And then this brings up something that I pondered as I began to pull up the sections of planking: is this what the fags mean when they say “masc only”? I’ve never really understood that. For me, it’s not really an issue: people are as they are. I can use power tools just as easily as I can bake a dessert. Sure, I like to queen it up… but only when it amuses me or the people around me. Does that make me feminine? I like to shop with friends, but when I am by myself I transform into “straight guy shopper”: I am in and out, whipping the cart (if I even bother to get one) around the corners with two wheels off the floor. Not because I am afraid to be out on my own, but because I have a specific purpose for doing so and like to execute my mission with military precision and timing. And the cart thing is kind of fun. Does this make me masculine? Or, like so much else, I wonder if this has been driven to the fetish point, where the stereotype gender behavior is divided down a razor-sharp line and pity any fool who gets too close to that edge. I don’t know the answer, just the same way that I don’t know if I am masculine or feminine. I am beginning to think that it is like so much else: people see what they want to. So to one, I may be the butchest, baddest thing; to another, I might just be the swishiest nelly queen in the universe. All I know is, either way I ain’t getting no dick.