There Are Limits
Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU! I stuck by you when you told me you were trans, through counseling, hormones, telling your parents, telling my parents, telling everyone else. I stuck around while you were telling me that your sex drive was suffering because of dysphoria—you, who'd been a proud "manwhore" when we met. I gave you the benefit of the doubt—you did a good job of coming through with reassurances that I was still attractive to you, it's your problem not mine, on and on. And now, while I'm still wrestling with all the crap from that, you turn around and tell me oh, hey, look, your libido's back—and then you tell me about this new girl you have a crush on and want to bring in on our relationship. First, all the facial feminization surgery and hormones haven't made her look like less of a horse's ass. Second, she's fucking intolerable—she calls our mutual friends retards, attempts to grope people without their consent, and blames it all on "Oh, I have no filter." NEWS FLASH: A filter is not some horrific cis-scum imposition, it's part of being a decent fucking human being. This chick does not need a pat on the back—she needs to get a fucking grip.
I know, I know, I'm not perfect, either. I've struggled with my own insecurities and given you plenty to worry about, too. That's why you, after ALL this crap, still get one more fucking chance. Fuck it up, though, and that wonderful, supportive girlfriend everyone tells you how lucky you are to have? She's going to toss you out on your ass.