It was the bane of my existence. Hardly a minute went by that my body didn’t feel like a dungeon in which the real me languished.
People looked at my squat frame, broader than it was tall, without realising that what they were seeing was a torture chamber in which my true body was being broken on the rack of wrong identity.
As years went by, things got worse. If in the past my constricting shell resembled an inverted pyramid, albeit one only 5’7” tall, eventually the midriff caught up with the shoulders, making my wrong body look more like that of a panda with a drinking problem.
God knows I tried to shed that offence to my true self. I played all sorts of sports, mostly tennis, only to find that didn’t offer an escape route. I cut down my alcohol consumption to a mere three times the BMA recommended allowance. I reduced the size of steaks I was eating from 16 to 12 ounces.
Nothing worked. The warder in my corporal prison wouldn’t unlock the door.
As my wrong body continued to expand, so did the trauma. The thought of suicide crossed my mind, but I chased it away, realising that thereby not only would my dead body keep its offensive shape, but it would also smell foul.
Obviously, I thought of getting psychiatric help, the more Freudian the better. Maybe, just maybe, my real body was imprisoned by my subconscious desire to bonk my Mum, kill my Dad and gouge my eyes out.
However, one look at the analysts’ price lists slammed me back into my solitary confinement. Despair set in. All hope fell by the wayside, as I tried, yet failed, to prepare myself to life without hope.
But then a miracle occurred. It was a secular miracle, naturally, for no others exist. Yet the effect was as liberating. My spine straightened out, gloom left my mind, scales fell off my eyes.
I realised that all I had to do was identify as one with the body of a Hellenic God, Apollo this time, not my customary Bacchus. The prison gates were instantly flung open, and my true self strutted out, bristling with muscle and self-confidence.
To be sure, I still look like my old self to the outside world. But that can change. The world can be forced to see me as I see myself.
All it takes is a smart political campaign proclaiming my right to identify as anything I please. Today I choose to identify as Apollo, tomorrow I may decide that Venus offers greater opportunities for social advancement, especially in the entertainment industry. And the day after tomorrow I may switch back.
In fact, if such is my wont, I may become a pendulum constantly swinging between Apollo and Venus, and the world will have to accept me as what I am each day (even if I myself may become somewhat confused).
That means that, among other things, I’d be entitled to go into any public lavatory, whether marked as A (for Apollo) or V (for Venus). In fact, the best solution would be to eliminate such yoke-like restrictions and turn every such facility into a uni-divine AV.
We must put an end to lavatorial separatism, which discriminates against people who, like me, fight for AV rights. And if you disagree, you’d better hire a burly bodyguard, for I’m coming after you, you antediluvian fossil.