Crashing from seven feet

     This afternoon saw me in full-on seven-foot girl mode at a BBQ in the back garden of a local friend. About 30 people, t-girls of various hues and several partners. My rare outings in the real world might look as though  they're becoming a little less rare but the truth is this month I've just been fortunate in their timing. As you might imagine I had a brilliant time and I don't think I did too badly on the looks front. A fortuitous sale purchase of a Kaliko sleeveless top and silk skirt provided the perfect summer BBQ outfit at an extremely reasonable price so my presentation felt as good as I could make it given the canvas I have to work on.
     Tonight I go to bed happy. On a girl high. Yet I know this game, after the high will come the trough. Some time tomorrow I'll be in the pit, probably staring at my monitor unable to think about the work in front of me, instead stuck in the misery of the never-to-be-feminine, the yawning chasm of ugly blokedom before me. I'll have flown too close to the flame again and my wings will be singed for a while.
     You might say that I should stay at home, fettle the Rusty Old Wreck instead. Avoid the whole cycle. But then I'd never have the high, and worse, I'd slowly descend into a continuous trough. Denying yourself this expression isn't as bad as suppressing it all completely but it might as well be for the eventual effect it has. It's not as though it's simply the dressing that's important here either, I could have spent this afternoon as bloke all the way through, I'd still have had the high simply from being with people who really understand all this.
    So when the trough comes tomorrow at least I'll expect it. But is there such an inevitability to it all? Will I one day learn how to stop it coming at all? I can only hope.
    I'd better get to bed, hadn't I, this is in danger of descending into incoherency given the lateness of the hour.