Here's another story. It turned out a little cheesy but I'm ok with that if you're ok with I walked into my room and stripped down to my skivvies. The deep piano emanating from the record player, setting a soundtrack to the falling snow outside. As measured myself in my full sized mirror I saw the pieces of myself that reminded me that I would never reach my own surmised destiny. I felt the promise I made to myself falling apart, the dream beginning to shatter. The dream that one day, maybe everything would be ok. Maybe everything would turn out as I envisioned. It seemed a little shallow that my dreams revolved around body image; but I couldn’t help it, it disgusted me. But it wasn't my fault. All I wanted was to be normal, but they wouldn’t let me have it. I tussled my blank and pink, curly hair and stared into my dead, grey eyes. I think I used to have a soul. There were still remnants of it, of my being alive. Not that it made much of a fucking difference anyways. I was just a prisoner to their rules, but more so my desire. I scanned my flat body in despise. The cold air drew goosebumps and a shiver up my spine. I turned to open my closet and gazed upon my rather androgynous wardrobe. Band shirt… band shirt… band shirt… so many band shirts. I chose Goatwhore, It usually horrified people enough to draw their attention away from the fact that I was a massive queer. A Goatwhore shirt and hello kitty panties, I really was queer wasn’t I? I put on skinny jeans with massive holes in them despite the fact that it was like 20 degrees outside. I put on my boots and leather jacket, all black. Maybe it was cliché but I really did dislike color. The only color was the blood red on my shirt. It dripped from Jesus as some weird goat/man/thing took an axe to him. I thought it was funny though I received more than my fair share of dirty looks for it. I went to grab my keys but stopped and just stared for a second. I never really did like going into town town too much. I was rather infamous as you would expect someone like me to be in a small town like this. I snapped out of it, grabbed the keys and walked out to my bike and drove into town. I only had one friend here, George. Which was a weird name considering he'd only moved to Colorado from Pakistan a year ago. He was such a sweet guy, unassuming and judged you only by your character. I pulled up in front of his international foods shop. I left my helmet with the bike and walked in. The smell of curry and incense filled my nose. I hated it but it was familiar. He was busy doing something behind the counter, he yelled out without taking his attention away form the task: "With you in one moments!" He was still working on his English. "When are you going to do something about the smell in here?" I said in a sarcastic manner. I was poking the bear. He took glance back and saw my not so shining face. If it was shining it was grease. "Annabelle! How are my love?!" Most fantific I presume." He was mixing words. "Oh you know, the usual." "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that." I chuckled a bit. He knew me too well. "What's the special today?" I queried. "Pigs feet and radish soup" He said almost too delightfully. Just the thought almost made me hurl. But I loved George too much not to try it. "Sounds orgasmic." I said trying my best to sound convincing. "Right up! Voula! One special for special lady customer!" "Is she more special than me?!" His wife yelled from the kitchen. "Of course not dear, no one is more special than you." He said whilst rolling his eyes at me. It made me laugh. I could listen to their banter all day. About 10 minutes later Voula came out with the soup and I sat on the lone bar stool at the kitchen window. I sniffed the soup. That was a mistake. My face probably turned green. I sparked conversation to stall my having to eat the soup to avoid hurting feelings. "How's the shop doing George?" I asked as he hauled a rather large box in back. "Busier and busier by the minute." "So what's that mean, you have 2 regular customers now?" I joked, and his booming laugh came thundering from the back room. "Well in this town that's pretty good business, you know." I chuckled a little and he sauntered over to me, kind of wobbling. He was kind of a heavy set man. He had black hair with grey streaks. The signs of age catching up. I rolled my sleeve up to scratch my forearm and flashed my tattoo. A multicolored sleeve of butterflies. He must've caught a glimpse. "That is a very pretty artwork on your arm there." He complimented. "Yeah I guess, just something I drew." "It's very fitting." "What do mean?" "You are like beautiful butterfly." I blushed "You might not see it but you are very beautiful. Here." He gently caressed my face. "And here." He poked my bosom. What he said next shocked me as we had never really talked about it. "You are boy now, but you blossom from you're cacoon and become like that." He pointed at the tattoo. "Just like beautiful, dainty butterfly." A tear streaked down my face. Sweaty old bastard. I never cried. I wiped the tear and stared him in the eyes a moment. After a second I put my elbows on the tabel, hopped up, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. I hopped off my stool. "I have to run." I called back at him. "What's bout your soup?" "It's all yours." I smiled back. I saw him take a sip out of the corner of my eye. As I walked through the door I could hear him say: "Voula, this taste like horses rear end." My smile grew as I hopped back on my bike. It was weird. This odd foreign man had changed my whole perspective on myself. The world needed more Georges. I looked in my mirror at my greasy reflection and I didn't know what he saw but I think at this point what he saw was all that really mattered. If the old goat saw something for me maybe it really was there, somewhere. The promise to myself didn't really mean anything now. Only his.