where am i

hello, welcome to my little corner of the internet! my name is ANNE (she/they), i'm a 22 y/o english education major, and this will be my spot to share thoughts, write things down before i forget them, share art from time to time, and just generally vibe.

☼ infj. taurus sun, scorpio moon, leo rising.

☼ autistic.

☼ soft??? masc???? idk, i'm a lesbian. i don't know my gender identity. all you need to know is that i am an entity that exists and definitely not a space alien sent to report my findings on human behavior.

☼ my interests include: eldritch horror, drag, feminism, leftism, greek mythology, the magnus archives, puella magi madoka, gaming, dungeons and dragons, my 3874398 ocs, multiversal bullshit. i'm also a bit of a stoner, so if you don't vibe with that, i'm probably not the right moot for you.

Hers was a faded blue dress, with daisies and vines embroidered all across the front. She spent just shy of an hour ironing and steaming it, matching it to a brand-new pair of flats. She curled her auburn hair per the instructions of a perfect grinning influencer—only, while looking at her, to realize her teeth were a bit yellow in comparison. 

But the alarm broke her out of her reverie, so she resorted to inconspicuously checking her reflection in windows. 

“Gertrude O’Malley,” she muttered to herself, over and over, whilst speed-walking down Washington Avenue. She whipped out her phone—9:30 AM. Thirty minutes and her life would officially begin. “Please, call me Gertrude. I was born August 14th, 1988 . . .” 

She turned a corner, and there it was—nestled between First and Wellington. The building was immaculate, with the Planned Parenthood logo gleaming above her. Gertrude hunched her shoulders, rehearsing her lines one more time—Gertrude O’Malley, August 14th, 1988, here’s my insurance and ID—and crossed the threshold.  

The waiting room was empty, save for a couple young women. A girl no older than sixteen flipped through a pamphlet, her mother rubbing her back. Her eyes were rimmed with tears. An older lady sat upright, head snapping to attention when someone entered or exited.  

9:35.  

Her chest tightened. Eyeing her fellow constituents, Gertrude smoothed out her skirt, landing in the plush seat nearest the door. The old woman stared at her—pinching her lips together, Gertrude offered her a timid smile. 

The woman tersed. Gertrude could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Then, to her surprise, she dipped her head in respect. 

Okay, Gertrude. She inhaled sharply. You can do this. Nothing bad is gonna happen. You’re here, you’re twenty-five minutes early, everything is fine. 

But a lot could happen in twenty-five minutes. 

 A broad stroke of a Sharpie was all it took to turn her away, and the man holding it wouldn’t bat an eye. What did it matter to him if she got care or not? It wouldn’t make him any poorer if a wrecking ball swung into the side of the building, or if all the doctors and nurses walked out at once. 

She stole a glance at the receptionist. He was having an animated conversation with a fidgety twenty-year-old—something about birth control. 

9:37. 

Gertrude checked her phone, holding her breath. She scrolled through videos of global catastrophes—senators calling on their voters to make a stand—the grating voices of billionaires-- 

9:39. 

Maybe she could get a work visa in Canada. For a second, she tried to picture herself, sitting in a log cabin, with a Canadian lumberjack for a husband. He’d slaughter a deer for her while she was at work, make her maple pancakes in the morning, then, as she left for her office job, he’d ask her aboot her day.  

9:41. 

She could pull off a secretary job, could she? Maybe she could go back to school and become a journalist—God knew the world needed them. Hell, she wouldn’t be surprised if their neighbors let refugees come in from America. Her mother could vouch for her, could she? She could start a new life, right? She could-- 

“Next!”  

The receptionist’s voice was clear as an alarm clock. Gertrude nearly dropped her phone, a shuddering gasp leaving her. Several pair of eyes landed on her—she nearly sunk to the floor, face burning, as she shuffled to the front. 

“Name?” 

“Um,” she pushed a strand of hair from her face. “Gertrude O’Malley. I’m here for gender affirming care.” 

“O’Malley . . . O’Malley . . .” the receptionist muttered, scrolling through his database. Gertrude picked at her fingernails. “Can you confirm your date of birth?” 

A sigh of relief. 

“August 18th, 1988.” 

“Peeeeerrrrfect.” The receptionist typed something in. Gertrude straightened, smoothing out the front of her dress. This was it. She leapt over the hurdle, and landed with perfect marks. “Well, Miss O’Malley, Doctor Sobolevsky will see you in about . . . ten minutes.” 

Hers was a faded blue dress, decorated with daisies and vines. Her auburn hair was perfectly curled. Her doctor’s recommendation was folded neatly into her brand-new purse. And Gertrude’s face broke out into a relieved smile, flashing her pearly whites. 

What does it feel like riding your bike in winter? 

Chill going through your thin jacket, lips chapped by the cold. Your legs feel heavy with each pedal, as the droning voice of a podcast nudges you awake. You were told it’d get easier the more you practiced, and in some regard it did. You’ve grown familiar with the route down Elm—past streets and dental offices and the park raided by police every couple of weeks. You know when to swerve past the broken glass, what time the lady with the pink hat goes walking, the exact amount of time the stoplight takes on a busy street. 

You can’t stand to listen to NPR anymore. It seems like every time you turn it on, there’s a new disaster unfolding. Plane crashes and human rights signed away with the stroke of a fat Sharpie, followed by neighbors taking down their MAGA flags after twelve years.  

It was eggs that did them in. Not war. Not death. Not violence. All it took to destroy their pride was the undeniable, simple truth that they’d been lied to. 

 They can soul-search all they want. Good for them.  

But you are teetering on the edge of the earth, looking into the abyss. It’s comforting in a way--you’ve stared at it so long that you can almost see light. 

And you can’t help but wonder-- 

Is there anything there for us?  

Are we like the museums in Germany, burnt down and lost to time forever? Are we the Library of Alexandria? Will everything I  ever loved, everything I ever knew, be just one tiny statistic? One obscure fact dug up by your sisters’ descendants, for them to be a little sad about? 

Funny. You thought the apocalypse would be a little more dramatic.  

You never wanted to be a Katniss Everdeen. Even holding a gun makes you shudder. To fight is to hurt. To hurt is to gut your body from the inside out and hang your soul out to dry. You were not made to be Brutus, and you never will be.