Quite obviously everything I ever understood about men came about in a state of false presumption regarding the polarity of my devotion. The things I developed among them, speaking of any group solely of men, were foundationless.
My manner of writng is fractured and unserving me. Cycles of action begin and end on a note of misplaced identity. My notion of what I can hope to accomplish in life needs to be reset to what I can realistically hope to accomplish in a world which does not readily acknowledge the potential for mastery in women. My own accomplishments in the field of art to date need a nonlinear bridge to those to come. I have a duty to put myself in a proper interior position with women, and share their struggle. Even though I have not yet advanced into physical reassignment of my sex I am as much a woman in spirit now as I ever will be after reaching physical reassignment, or so it seems, though I would certainly welcome even higher degrees of my womanhood. My present state is rather like that of a girl entering puberty, in some ways, and yet also more familiar with coitus than that, since I have had such experiences, and my memory of the female's behavior at those times is quite active.
The overwhelming assurance I possess is that a woman can be a great person in history, and so I need not despair of precedent for good deeds in my new role. I also put my trust in my body as a register on which the greatest joys of sex can be entered, specifically as a woman, through the depth of human imagination--and a promise that as in anything, persistence, regarding the ideal of sexual rewards, pays off, for man or woman, and so I needn't expect less sexual reward as a woman than I did as a man. What lies behind the face shaped by the wrong DNA? Perhaps only time can tell.