That's an Archibald Baxter paraphrase. This is conscientious objection, and that puts me in good stead with Benjamin Britten and Michael Tippett, two of the great British composers of the 20th century.
Tippett even went to jail, and I'm prepared to if it goes that far.
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Sedition is the documentary that most closely resembles the kind of protest that the cannabis thing really was (and is) - a few people speechifying and generally participating in non-violent civil disobedience.
I haven't done anything violent, except to myself. I have a high level of suicidality, and the starving myself is probably linked to that.
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For the music buffs:
No, I won’t help you, Jane. I’m annoyed with how you used me the first time around, and there won’t be a second time because I utterly refuse.
I’m sick of classical guitar, and I’m sick of that world. I left for the same reasons that I won’t return.
It’s elitist, it’s kinda racist, and I always felt awkward. While I felt more comfortable at Isentia, and also now at RNZ.
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And it’s not about excusing myself: it’s that I genuinely believe in my right to protest, and don't care how many people were offended. Shock value is good when you’re trying to change minds, and that’s what I’m good at.
Which is why it’s hard to change my mind. 😎 The answer is no to any ‘put some pants on’ bullshit. What I want is the right for nobody to be able to tell me to tone it down. I’m not going to, and I’d rather I was legally protected. It’s not that I never wear pants: it’s just that I always want it to be my choice what I wear, and that’s what fixing the Human Rights Act would guarantee. - And if ‘s’ is Jake - hell no. He made his bed and he can lie in it. His lies are why I get to say no. - I bet watching the punk rapper is a lot more fun than being me. These grammar hints on Google Docs are annoying: it ruins the flow of my language. I guess it’s comical that I can proofread and edit lots of different styles of English, yet my spoken version and prose style is more the stoner version than the legit version. - I remember Christchurch perfectly well. I just prefer not to talk about it, because I saw Wellington as a chance to make a fresh start. Most of my memories of Christchurch are my insane mother (yes, you non-family stalkers have no idea how nuts my Mum was), people thinking I was a creepy weirdo, and music. And my Dad, but seeing as he’s dead, I seldom think of him. For the first year or two, the grief was intense, but that line in Weeded Out for Jade was something that really happened to me at Isentia on the first anniversary of his death: it really felt like he was there, and approving of my new career. - I might pull an Avatar 2 and make the sea a huge part of the 2050 Shipwrecked on Islands setting: the undersea cables, solar/wind farms, algae farms etc. and maybe a few of those Thiel seasteading cranks. - I think Facebook is an ideal medium for Weeded Out. The tiny screen suits the low-res paint/roto effects, and the advertising box is a super-useful tool for adding in the fun informative bits like NZ on Screen links. Whether Māori see my ads disproportionately, I think that’s just because I live in that world more than in Te Ao Pākehā. The bulk of my building is brown. Mostly Indian/Pakistani/Sri Lankan (I haven’t asked, but South Asian), plus a fair few Māori/Pacific. So my ads resonate with that world because that’s the world where I learned my craft - the trannie craft, anyway. And I think that most people probably see the humour in my screen performance. But I don’t do live until I get assurances that that only means me and my guitar (and possibly some tapes). - The main audience for my ads is old men. I have to remind Facebook to advertise to women with every ad, which is irritating for me. - Do you seriously think I need to stand for a seat to be a pro pain in the arse? I don’t see why - it’s not as though my camp campaign is Welly-specific; I think registering for political advertising is the only necessity, and I’d rather not have folks waste their vote on me. - No, I refuse to be ‘just’ a man. I honestly do not give a flying fuck about the chattering arseholes of Wellington. I utterly refuse. It’s just that simple, I don’t think it’s fair to restrict my attire, and I will not comply. NO. Under no circumstances. I will be wearing the clothes that I choose, and you can deal with me as the trannie. I mean it. Nope, no extensions. No fake tits. No. I will not change my style. I will not back down. I get to wear what I like, or I kill myself. Those are the options. - I’m serious, and nobody can persuade me to not wear dresses. The answer is I get to, or it is I commit suicide. There are no other answers on the table. I will not conform, and that is actually a form of protest: I will keep this up, and eventually the Government will change that law.
- No, tomorrow I will be wearing a dress. I will be wearing skirts. I will not be ceasing, and that is the simple truth. No, I will not give it up. I refuse to change. That was the single most insulting thing about that entire Tory Whanau evening, and I will not budge. I get to wear what I want, or you all will never see me again. I will not budge, and if the cops have a problem, they’d better fucking pull me in or leave me alone. - I don’t care if Jake lost students. He deserved it for being a cunt, and he slept around with lots of girls, many of whom I bet were also pissed at him for being a cad. He does not get my help. He will not. I will not help him one iota, and he has to accept the NO. - I will not accept Luxon’s conditions. I will not accept anyone’s conditions. The answer is I get to wear what I want, or it is I will kill myself. I will not kill my page. I will not stop posting. No operations, no extensions, no makeup, no wigs. Just accept me as I am. It’s not illegal - Carmen won that fight 50+ years ago. - The parents of Wellington will only ever get my hate if they try to control me. What I deserve is a fair shake after those people threw my name into the mud and made me feel like I couldn’t walk the streets. - And I sincerely doubt anyone’s reputation was as badly damaged as mine was. Nobody believed me, and it’s only after years of interrogation that people have come around to the idea that I was telling some harsh truths. Things that are unpalatable, but many of which were true. - I’m not leaving the musical unfinished. I’m finishing that musical, and you can all accept the NO about my Weeded Out movie. I don’t want to move. It’s just not high on my list of priorities - I’d rather keep the job than live with Chloe. I barely know if we’ll get on, let alone living together. It’s a bit early to talk about any of that stuff. - If you can’t handle my anger in my room, then stop trying to piss me off deliberately. Treating me like Pavlov’s dog has gotten you nowhere, and it cheapens all of us.
I’m not budging. I’m not bending. And if you want me to be well, then affirm my gender.
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I don’t think I swayed the last election, and I’d need to see a fucking laundry list of proof before I’d ever be swayed to that opinion.
I’m not a guy, and that’s why I have a real diagnosis. In fact, all of you are not listening to that diagnosis - real gender dysphoria, and therefore the healthcare response is to affirm the gender.
Not the medical route. I’m fighting for a future where that route is obsolete: it’s far too expensive for most (including me), and honestly not that effective.
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I don’t think plastic surgery defines gender. I think that is society’s sickness rather than my sickness.
I’ve seen Mika in outfits exactly like mine with stubble. Therefore, it can be done, and I am not alone. And she is a she too.
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