So today was weird again. Another day of building that stupid dam, trying to fit into the gender and species molds God chose for me. Trying to pretend my life isn’t one confusing thought after another—or that I have even the slightest innate interest in dam building. I am so going through the motions. Something particularly awkward happened today when I was watching Eric drag a willow branch into the river—I totally got turned on. For the first time, I was able to ignore his beaver exterior and simply relish his maleness. Maybe it was seeing how strong he is. It didn’t hurt that he was all wet, either. Then I looked over and Karen was giving me a huge smile from across the dam. Poor thing—if she only knew I think of her as a sister/pet and nothing else, she’d be devastated.
I just want to crawl out of this stupid fur! I hate it. I hate it so much. I’m so boyish/rodentish, I want to die. I want to wear a skirt and have voluptuous hips to hang the skirt on, not these stupid doughy hindquarters. I swear these oil sacs near my anus are the only things keeping me sane right now. If I have to have fur like this, at least it’s got a decent sheen to it.
I’m thinking about leaving the den. For real this time. I don’t know what else to do with this sham of a life I’m living. The other alternative is to tell everyone at dinner tonight about who I really am underneath my man and beaver exteriors. But I’m sure they’ll ostracize me from the colony—everyone’s so trans-gender-species-phobic in this fucking lodge.
This is not my penis. It belongs to someone else. I don’t know what’s more repulsive to me—my penis or this freaking tail. I could seriously play tennis with this thing.
We were dragging timber today through the muddiest marsh I’ve ever seen. My fur was black by the time we finished. I’m fine with getting a little dirty, but this mud was so silty and got all caked under my nails. I spent like an hour trying to scrape it out against a stick. Everyone was staring at me, wondering what I was doing. Oh, I don’t know, maybe just trying to maintain some fantasy of humanity/femininity. Sorry.
I totally gorged myself on bark and moss today. I’m such a huge cow.
It’s almost breeding season again. Karen’s going to be all over me again, wondering why I’m flaccid as a water lily. We’ve missed three seasons already, so I guess I understand why she takes it so personally. I feel sick when she looks up at me—those big brown eyes wondering why I don’t find her attractive. And all I want to say to her is that it’s because she’s female and a beaver. But instead I keep telling her it’s because of a timber-related injury I sustained when I was younger. She’s buying it for now—I just hope she doesn’t see me fully engorged when Eric passes by carrying a log in his beautiful mouth.
What does a beaver have to do to get swept up in the talons of a goddamned hawk! Seriously—I couldn’t be more out in the freaking open. I even faked a limp, for Christ’s sake. I see you up there circling—what kind of lame-ass predators are you guys? Is it because I’m too fat? Is that it? Are you worried you won’t be able to fly away with me because I’m such a whale right now? It didn’t stop you from grabbing Brenda last spring, and homegirl had some serious junk in her trunk. This is some serious bullshit.
I know that I haven’t written in quite some time. The black quilt of winter has descended upon us. Bodies piled upon bodies—our lodge buried under inches of ice. Maybe this is the darkness talking, but I have resigned myself to this double … double life. As spring emerges, so will I. But not the true me, the true me I’m afraid will never emerge. Not in this life. As for now, my only wish is for one of these bucktoothed bastards to pop an air bubble or something—it smells like complete ass in here.