First there were the antitestosterone diuretics. Then came the estrogenic hormones. Next came a decisive step--castration. Then removal of other parts and construction of novel parts.

My parts are dropping like flies.

I'm being forward-engineered. My pronouns are mutating, but they're also maturing. My résumé is being corrected--LinkedOut to be LinkedIn. My way out is the swinging door that hits me in the ass on my way in. Now the malleable world has to mature to me.

My new place in this world is sidestepping my old place: it's a dance, but I'm still leading, because they're playing my song.

I was going to respond to a post about how rude people are to others who write and seem to strike a nerve. But then I realized it was time for a full policy statement.

Maybe my skin's thickened with age or maybe that "Sticks and stones" thing has stuck with me ever since I needed a mantra to repel attacks for when my skin was much thinner.

But here it is:

Anyone--I mean anyone--can attack me, berate me, call me all sorts of things--and I don't mind. theProse is an outlet of creativity. I put it out there, and...well...there it is. Like it or leave it, praise it or condemn it, share it or hope I drop dead. Call me a Democrat or call me a Republican, call me God-fearing or amoral. Call me a genius or an imbecile. (I'll be fine called something in between.)

Once you give up on the dream of getting published, you write for yourself. So, as a 5-times-failed novelist, it's mine to share and you can enjoy it or shove it back up my ass (sideways, because that's supposed to hurt more).

In other words (words--that's funny), there is nothing you can say that will deflate, defeat, or "ingrate" me. The world's drama is only on a stage. It can be tragic, but all plays end. And some give such memorable performances.

If I write something you find offensive, maybe it's just ironic. If I write something you find hurtful, maybe it's just self-reflective. There's good writing and there's bad writing. But writing at all leaves a legacy. I certainly would rather my legacy be troll bait than something like Mein Kampf--my four-and-a-half-year struggle against lies, stupidity and cowardice. ("Mein Kampf II: this time it's personal.")

It may be lies, stupidity, and cowardice one four-and-a-half-year cycle, but arrogance, self-serving, and vanity the next. Maybe beauty is right around the corner. Yes, words can be dangerous when people are foolish, and some people have tighter filters than others--while some allow all the water to drain out the colander.

But anything that comes from me is fair game. Be nice...or not. Follow me until you feel you must unfollow me. On my deathbed, the one sentiment I WON'T have is, "My God, why wasn't I even more snarky when I could have been to...um...to...I don't know...those people."

I'm too fully self-actuated to fall for the me-vs-them thing. How much pain has me-vs-them caused? How many wars? How much death? Haven't we learned by now?

Moral of the story: I'm having a great time here.

No matter how it's received, celebrated, condemned, or ignored. If I'm selfish because I write for me, then at least it's a friendly audience who are courteous enough to silence their smartphones. The audience can look for drama elsewhere. If you dis me, then just saunter off along your way. Like Jed Clampett said, "Y'all come back and visit, now." But remember that on the stage of life actors can be replaced. And prima donnas are usually self-appointed.

But hey! that's just me.

I breathe deep her unique scent

A fragrance sent, parts of she

Taking time to note them well

Before the knell tolls for me

Too busy to notice all

The things that fall in my way

That I step over blindly

That try so kindly to say:

"Stop, stare, breathe, hear, recognize!"

All the clued cries fast passed on

I should have savored them all

So to recall dear life through

Now I'm inert in wonders

To the thunders I heard not

Life's each microtomed moment

Each component my blind spot

My panic is desperate

I've no respite, such gems missed

Never get them back again

Forever, then, erst dismissed

Worthwhile ways to live life all

Requires stalling each time

Loving life with dissecting

For collecting the sublime

Now I'm cramming for finals

Photos equal my Bible

Can't appraise my life when done

My moments unplaceable