q: what’s going on with chase?

a: Not much. Seven more school days until summer vacation, which I’m conflicted about. I don’t know what else to talk about. I haven’t known what else to talk about…

Um, I’m going to be attending a Theatre Fine Arts program where I will be constructing and painting sets for the community’s production of ‘Miss Saigon’. I also might be doing an online Summer Pre-College Fine Arts program with Academy of Art University.

But the most important part I saved for for last! My friend Nine is writing a play about me and my transsexualism. He’s an amazing writer. Well, let him tell you about it…

Evening all. Nine here.

Inspired by Chase’s gender transformation, we’ve put our collective heads together and begun work on a play loosely based on his life. The story follows Claire, who feels wrong in a female body and wishes to be male. Overcoming her friends, family and her own fears, she begins her transformation into Clay. After much thought and bashing of skulls against walls a rough synopsis has been hammered out. It’s hush-hush at the moment though, and writing proper won’t start for awhile. Projects due, and whatnot. But it is in the works.

I’m on writing, Chase is on concept art. Working title is She and Him or I, but this is subject to change. If it’s finished in time, with Chase’s permission I plan to submit it to my school’s ArtsFest next year and possibly get it produced. (I go to an arts school, so this is kind of a big deal.) Any ideas, suggestions or hate mails are much appreciated, but a rough draft will probably be produced sometime in the next couple of months.

Here’s a brief brief excerpt. (Well, to be honest it’s the only thing currently written down.)

Julie: Hey, are you all right? *pause.* Do you need help? Do you need someone to talk to? If you want something you have to talk to me. *Pause.* Well… I’m leaving, okay? *Pause.* God loves you. Remember that. *Exits.*

Claire: God loves me. *Pause.* A lot of people want me to believe that God hates people like me. I wonder if she would have said the same thing, if she knew. *Pause.* What’s that supposed to do for me, anyway? God loves me? You might as well say my parents love me, or you love me, or there are children starving in Africa. Is that supposed to make me feel better? It’s like telling me there’s a little bit of good in my life, so I have no right to complain and I should stop whining. Then they expect me to perk up and appreciate what I have. But I can’t. I just feel hollow and selfish. I hate it when people tell me to be happy. I hate it when people tell me my problems aren’t so bad. It’s the feel-good, artificial sweetener alternative to actually caring and helping.