When you wrote that heart-breaking, brave article about your decision, as a sports writer for the LA Times, to send back your kielbasa for the clam dish (and asked that everyone refer to you as "Christine"), we were in your corner. You handled it with more humor and good grace than we could fathom.
When you decided you'd had enough of Christine (and her split ends) and were returning to Mike Penner, we had fun at your expense. We said that unless you're Mr. Potato Head, genetalia are not easily interchangeable. We also urged you to pick a gender and stick with it. This ain't a game of musical chairs, we chortled.
And now. Now you decided to kill yourself.
We curse the demons that tormented you. We feel shame for making light of your game of "pin the tail on the gender."
You didn't have to do this. You were loved, regardless of what you packed 'neath your underoos.
So now, as you stand naked before your maker, vulnerable (liberated?), ask Him what He intended. Did he aim to make a Mike or was he really going for a Christine? And know, down here on this mortal coil, it didn't matter a damn whether you had an "innie" or an "outie." You were a member of the family of man. A being of value and beauty.
Would that we could have made you feel more welcome in your skin. And that you were able to love yourself for the fabulous creature you were.
Sleep tight, bitch. You better work.