I have so much respect for transvestites, and I can look at them with such jealousy in my eyes. They have something and do something I want to have and do as well; and they act like I wish I could.

Let me just get this out of the way: I don’t look good in a dress. I don’t look good as a transvestite. I don’t have the body, the skin, the overall profile to be a good transvestite, nor do I have the attitude (or dedication).

And the latter point—the attitude—is what I desire I would have. I don’t necessarily want to be a transvestite, but I do. I feel shame when I look at my own behaviour. I want to have the drive to be me to the fullest extent in real life, but I just don’t have what it takes to be like that.

Let me tell you a little more: even though I don’t look good in a dress, I don’t look half-bad in a pair of heels. Bonus: I can actually walk in them.

Maybe it’s my agoraphobic past; perhaps I’m just not someone who likes to be dramatic in his day-to-day life; there’s a good chance I feel uncomfortable being to the fullest extent.

MASK:
Confers wit.

— Flaubert.¹