Tyler/Valerie: How rumors start

Two nights ago I was doing dishes for the umpteenth time since moving in while the guys (specifically Denny and Trent) were playing Xbox and I decided I'd had it.

"You guys mind helping out?"

"Well there's only one sink," Trent said without pausing the game.

"It's called taking turns," I said.

"Ehh," Denny said, "I cook a lot so it's not exactly fair if I have to do dishes too."

I point out that I don't eat much of the food he makes but I still find myself cleaning it, and when I cook (I'm much better than him anyway) I still do the dishes.. His smartass reply is that that's my choice. Ryan, my one ally around here, was of course out with his girlfriend Alexa.

Trent adds that he "doesn't really know how to clean" and that I'd do a much better job so there was no point in him pitching in. I told him he could figure it out, and if this was my choice then it was time to choose not to. I dropped everything in the sink and walked off.

I was so pissed I went to my room and started texting around to see if I could hang out with - and maybe stay with anyone I knew. Pete was busy of course, (one day I'm going to have to ask exactly what s/he gets up to) and Marie had family over, and with the baby and all there's not usually a good time. That kind of left only one person to answer, and he was all too happy to do so.

"Chickpea!" Rafe opened the door with that big stupid grin on his face  right away when I knocked.

"I regret this already," I sighed.

"I honestly didn't think you were gonna honor that rain check," he said.

"Well, I figured what the hell," I said, "You've toned it down a bit this week."

"Thanks for noticing," He snorted, "I'm not so bad am I?"

I entered and looked around. It was a sty but a one-man sty unlike my place.

"You've got to be aware of your rep. It seems pretty well earned."

An open bag of chips was on the kitchen table. "This dinner?" I took a fee.

"Just the appetizer. Dinner was by Swansons."

"Ew," I rolled my eyes, "Learn to cook. Women love it, as long as you don't make them do the dishes."

"I'll bet you do," he said back, and I wasn't sure if he meant 'you women' or me in particular. I didn't ask.

"Place is pretty nice. You afford it by yourself?"

"My parents help," he said, he said nonchalantly.

"Translation... They pay, while you spend your twenties 'Figuring it out.' I should have smelled the money on you."

He didn't acknowledge that. "Well, come on in. I've even got your favorite ice cream."

"Creepy," I smirked. "So what are we up to tonight?"

"I can think of a few things," he said.

"This should go without saying, but all clothes will remain on for the duration."

"Sure, sure," he said, pretending to be indignant (at least I hope he was pretending.)

I noticed something paused on the TV screen. "What's this?"

"Oh, uh, Riverdale. Kind of a guilty pleasure." He seemed embarrassed.

"That's that show with the sexy Archie and Betty and Veronica?" I wondered whether people Val's age even knew Archie comics before this show came on. (And then I thought, I'm not that much older, am I?)

"Yeah, and there's a murder mystery," he said, I guess trying to make it sound more manly (and failing.)

"Sounds cheesy. I'm in."

"Really? You came all the way over just to watch a show we both agree is probably pretty bad?"

"Why not," I said, "One of the best dates I ever had was staying up on a hotel room watching I, Frankenstein, which was the worst."

"Lucky guy," Rafe said.

"Yeah... He was," I sighed, referring to myself.

"So... Is this a date then?" He asked.

I twisted my mouth, "Let's not go nuts..."

He gave me a beer and flipped the Netflix back to the beginning and we wanted like six or seven weirdly gripping episodes before I started to drift off. He let me lie down with my feet up on his lap - a perk of shortness is that I can do this on any couch and basically stretch all the way out.

He must have crept away sometime and left a wooly blanket on me. I was more tired than I thought I would be. I woke up on the middle of the night to pee - as I do pretty much every night - and was momentarily spooked to find myself still there. When I tried to fall back asleep I got a little paranoid about how I was sleeping on a near-stranger's couch and that he might think I'm leading him on and try to do something to me... But nothing did happen of course. Then my mind started racing in all these other directions about the various stressful, painful aspects of my life, and I felt sad sleeping on this chilly, lumpy sofa alone.


Then before I knew it, it was daylight and he woke me up by sitting down on the couch next to my feet. I must have fallen back asleep eventually.

After asking if I slept okay (and me lying and saying yes) he suggested we hit up his favorite breakfast spot. It was a twenty minute subway ride away and I hadn't showered, but he swore the bagels would be worth it.

"All this way just for bagels? You can get those anywhere."

"How long have you lived in Brooklyn? You should know all bagels are not created equal." Once I tasted the product, I had to admit he was right.

Over breakfast we got to talking. I asked what he wanted to be besides a barista and he said he was a writer. I asked what he wrote and he said he was working on "Something of a semi-autobiographical novel. Basically a memoir."

I teased him a bit. "Oh really! What have you done to warrant a memoir?"

"Hey, I've got plenty of material."

"I'm sure," I snickered.

"Oh and you've had such a fascinating life? What has ever happened to you?"
My face stiffened. "Well, I was recently dumped horribly on my wedding day. That's gotta be good for a few chapters."
He blushed, somewhat acknowledging his faux pas. "I'll give you that," he muttered, his voice mingling embarrassment and irritation. I actually felt a little weird saying it because for a moment it didn't even really feel like it had happened to me, even though it definitely did, and it definitely didn't feel good.
"What else you got?" he said, snapping back into his more obnoxious character.

For a moment I wanted to play the "man magically cursed into living as three different women" card... And hell, even before that I might've had a tale or two worth telling. But as Valerie, I don't think I had much of a case. "Not a lot, I'll admit."

"Well, it isn't the story, you know. It's how you tell it." I hope he noticed me rolling my eyes.

Still, it was nice speaking to him on those terms. I had been hanging out with him for several hours and my skin hadn't crawled once. And I had to admit the bagels were pretty great.

He had the day off but I had the afternoon shift so we went to the coffee shop together. It was almost gentlemanly, until he noticed a woman coming out of the shop who happened to have large pair of breasts. His head snapped in her direction so fast he must have gotten whiplash.

I'd like to think I would usually have taken it on myself to defend her as a new member of the sex, who has had to deal with a fair share of leers, but I guess we had bonded a bit. Still I couldn't let it slide so I let him know how obvious he was by ribbing him about it: "Come on, she was a seven."

He seemed surprised that I would say anything about it, let alone that, but after a beat he regained his composure and said "Yeah but her tits were ten each."

After that remark I felt a little gross for encouraging it. Trying to make locker room guy talk was like putting on clothes that no longer fit. I felt weird for trying so hard to make him think I'm, I dunno, some kind of "cool" girl who acts like a guy... Even though deep down I still think of myself as a guy! Just not, hopefully, a cliche horn dog like him.

I went into the bathroom to put on a fresh pair of underwear, tights and deoderant - a nice thing about femininity is that you can carry all these things in your purse and people won't think much of it. When I came out, one of my co-workers, Maddie, was waiting to tsk tsk me.

"What was that about, you strolling in here with Rafe? Scandal..."

I lied, "We ran into each other on the subway."

"Suuure," she said, rolling her eyes and kind of laughing but keeping some judgment in her voice. I felt pretty bad for the rest of the day. It's weird. I'm kind of making friends with the guy, but I feel like I shouldn't. But as much as he deserves his bad reputation, I hate to admit there's a decent guy in there. It's all part of me lately being very confused about my place in the world.


-Tyler, Valerie

Glenn (Peter Malinowski): A visit with my son

When I became "Peter Malinowski," in Maine, my 17-year-old son ("Mason" for the purposes of this blog,) became a 15-year-old girl from around the area I will call "Brooke Shaner." I only had a brief time with him to digest what had happened to us before Brooke's parents came to collect her. She had disappeared weeks earlier, initially to spend the night with Trevor, and then simply vanished (into whatever limbo where bodies are held... a question I don't want to ponder) until Mason's transformation. That's two weeks without knowing where their daughter was. I'm told she concocted some kind of flimsy cover story that was starting to grow suspicious by the time Mason was transformed. Mason's shellshocked appearance upon "rescue" was likely not helpful.

The way they arrived very quickly after the change leads me to believe someone tipped them off, who would have knowledge of the Inn's magic (Mason doesn't seem to think they have a clue.)

As a result, while I've been Peter Malinowski of Dover, Delaware, my son has been living in Maine for the past several months, as a girl somewhat younger than himself, and I have been tearing my hair out (which I shouldn't do since I gained a good amount of it) trying to keep tabs on him from a distance.

Understand, I hadn't been a full-time parent in years before my wife left him with me to go "do good" in Central America. So I'm a little protective of him, and the idea of leaving him with strangers, to play this new role, was frustrating to me, but I had no choice. I wished I could have been there, especially in those scary early weeks. It might have brought us closer together. Instead, we are further apart than ever.

I contact him often, to ask how he is feeling. Mostly he dodges the question by giving simple answers. He tells me things are fine, and I wonder how that can possibly be.

So I told him, over the Christmas holiday, I was going to use some vacation time to go to Maine and see him. He seemed reluctant, but I told him it was non-negotiable. It was a time for family, and he was important to me. All I asked for was one day of his time. By then, he had behaved himself as Brooke to where his disappearance was forgiven and he was getting a bit more leeway with the Shaners to do as he pleased.

I met Mason at a café not far from his house. I was very early. I kept my eyes fixed on the door. I knew what he looked like, but was not used to seeing it in person, so every young lady who walked through the door got an unfortunate once-over from me before proceeding to the counter to order. I had sent a recent photo so that he wouldn't mistake me for someone else. I was being very cautious.

The last time I had seen my son in person, he was very much traumatized, so the mental image I had was of a tense, shuffling, awkward girl. I had to look twice when a comparatively poised, confident young lady breezed into the coffee shop and, after a moment's glance of recognition, took her seat across from me. I didn't know how to react.

She was wearing a green scarf and a dark coat, undone. She had her dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She didn't appear to be wearing any makeup, that I could tell - a few spots of acne dotted her face, which made me wonder if Mason would be more or less self-conscious from wearing cover-up (as I believe many teenage girls and grown women do) than letting blemishes show.

"Hey," she said softly. Then, collecting herself, she added "Dad" more softly.

"Hi... Brooke." We were in public, so "Mason" wouldn't do, but his new name stuck in my throat awkwardly. I went in for a hug, and he leaned forward only slightly in his seat to allow it.

"Sorry, I didn't know how I should..." he said, before trailing off.

"I understand," I said - even in our normal form our hugs were perhaps not as comfrotable as they could have been. "Are you going to have anything?" Maybe later, he said.

I asked how things had been. I had asked often enough over text, but there he was able to be evasive. I hoped in person he would be forthcoming.

"It's okay," he said. We weren't off to a good start. "School is easy since I took a lot of these classes already, but I get a little tired of repeating stuff. Brooke's friends are good people."

"Interesting," I said, "Do you feel like... you fit in?"

"Sure," he said.

"Is it strange?" I asked, "Having a body so different? Are you okay with it?"

"Yeah, it's fine," he said, "It took some getting used to, but, like, it's been months, so whatever."

I guess I didn't expect him to tell me if he spent his nights crying about it. But his phrasing, that it "took some getting used to," suggested he was now officially "used to it." This would be in line with what I knew about Leon, and Cathy for that matter. The implication that he was as used to it as they were, or most of the people who go through this blog, unsettled my stomach.

"Tell me about your new friends, then, what are they like?"

"They're ok. They make fun of me because they think Brooke is going through a serious tomboy phase, not to mention becoming a total amnesiac about her own life, but they're still nice to me. That part is really reassuring. We hang out a lot. I was afraid to ask for girl tips from them but I get a lot of info just from listening to them talk."

"Okay, that's good."

"It's better than when I was living with you, because I didn't have any friends in Illinois."

Ouch. But at least he was finding silver linings. And it didn't really sound like he was blaming me for that...

He named off a few friends... Katies, Melissas, Lauras. They sounded like typical teenage girls, discovering make-up and fashion and, yes, boys.

Then he started naming boys who were friends of Brooke's - Dereks and Lukes and Brads. "Brad and I watched a few football games together. Luke's into Xbox, so we stay up late playing over the headset. Derek is always the first to sit next to me at lunch."

To write it out, it might sound very innocent, but as he described it, he was practically swooning.

I took my time formulating a response to this. I wanted to be fair to this but I also wanted information.

"And how do you feel about the way these boys treat you? Is it... different from how it used to be?"

He scoffed a perfect teenage girl huff. "Obviously."

"And... do you like it?"

"I don't know, kinda," he said, shifting in his seat. "Are you asking if I like boys now?"

"No, well... I would like to know if you have thoughts on it. You don't have to hide that from me."

"I don't know. I don't want to talk about it. It's weird."

So now it was weird. A minute ago he kinda liked it. I'm trying to remember what it was like been a teenager and having lots of confusing feelings.

"I don't want you to judge me," he said, "If I'm not some all American super boy like you want."

"I don't care about that. Who told you I did?"

"Trevor," he said. "He told me you were really rooting for him when he went out for the football team."

"You talked to Cathy?" I said, using 'Trevor's' proper/original name.

"Sure, we have lots in common." I supposed that was true, in a sense. Their experience is... closer to each other's than mine. But it still felt like a betrayal because neither mentioned it before now and I had no idea what they were saying to one another.

"Did you know that she's dating?" I said, maybe a little spitefully.

"Yeah," Mason said. "It's not really dating though. Nothing official."

That didn't make me feel more at ease.

"You should be careful, Mase," I said firmly, "These boys probably are interested in you, at least some of them."

"So?" he sneered petulantly, "I can make my own decisions."

"So... I don't want you to do something you'll regret."

"You don't trust me," Mason said, crossing his arms under his breasts and looking away.

"It's not that. I just don't trust... other people."

"If I was a boy, you would never talk to me this way. You're a sexist."

"You don't know what you're saying!" I snapped back. "It's different for girls and boys, okay? You at least know that much, right?"

"I can handle it. Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot. You don't even know me."

"Apparently I don't."

We sat there silently for a moment, then he murmured, "You're hooking up with Leon, for God's sake, and that guy is digusting. Don't talk to me about urges okay?"

I was aghast. Finally, I sputtered, "What I do, what adults do, is none of your concern. You're still a child, you're my child, and that makes you my responsibility."

"Oh yeah?" he said, standing up to leave, He leaned in and hissed "Why should I listen to you? I'm not your son anymore."

"You think it's that easy?" I said, frustrated, "That some magic curse overrides my parental responsibility? Poof, you're a stranger to me?"

"Why not? You had no problem handing me over to them - and they're way nicer than you anyway."

"I was never mean to you! Don't make a scene. Is this... just your hormones or something?"

That, admittedly, was the wrong thing to say. He left, saying only "Don't follow me."

I felt very bad after he left, especially for the hormones remark. I was very bothered by the fact that my timid, introverted son would never have spoken to me that way. Had estrogen warped his brain, or was he finally about to really let out what he really felt, emboldened by the fact that he no longer had to rely on me for parental support, and no longer had an identity that was tied to mine. That he can declare me a stranger so quickly was startling.

I sent a very carefully worded e-mail to him afterwards, acknowledging that things had not always been perfect between us - I stopped short of outright apologizing because 1) I firmly believe I did my best, and 2) I think it is a sign of weakness for a parent to apologize to his child so quickly. I told him that no matter his feelings, I had his best interests in mind 100% of the time, and that, with nobody nearby who knows his situation, it is incumbent on me to help him get his normal body back.

Assuming that is what he wants.

If he would rather be a girl? Well, I suppose the chips will fall where they may, but there is a woman in upstate New York who lived the first 16 years of Brooke's life, and I doubt she would be pleased about being cut off from it, and I told him so.

Mason sent me a lengthy e-mail in response, in which he also did not apologize for his behavior but hinted at admitting wrongdoing. He defended his attitude and admitted things "had been difficult" to figure out (re: identity and sexuality, I guessed) and that I hit a nerve by suggesting he was somehow wrong to feel that way.

I told him I didn't mean to give that impression, only to give the advice I would want to give a daughter, if I had one, about boys' intentions. I guess that was both stupid (because he was a boy and knew their intentions) and  a double-standard, because I had never warned him off of girls and in fact encouraged him to do his best to win them over.

Mea culpa on that one.

The last part of my response concerned Cathy/Trevor, who I assured him was NOT the son I wanted. I wanted him, no matter who he is - athletic or nerdy (apparently that's a cool thing to be called now?) boy or girl.

He appreciated my saying so. Once that was smoothed over, we agreed to meet again before I left town. This time he arrived wearing pre-ripped jeans (I had no idea those were back in style, yuck.) I asked if his legs got cold, and he laughed it off. I complimented his hair, which was up in a messy bun.

"Thanks... it's not that hard once you learn the basics."

Things were a lot more warm between us this time. He told me that no matter what, he did want to go back to being himself. He didn't know how to make it work, given that the Shaners were going to be watching their daughter like a hawk come summertime, considering her disappearance last year. He thought maybe he could get one of the girls to claim they were going on vacation together. I don't like the idea of a child having to lie to parents, but obviously we have limited options. I told him to let me know.

Glenn (Peter Malinowski): Driving me crazy

Originally I was going to entitle this post "Women are crazy," but that seemed sexist given that just about everyone else writing here has been a woman at one point or another. I'm just trying to stay sane, surrounded by mixed-up people. And those people, to some degree or other, all seem to be women. I don't want to say one has to do with the other, but...

To refresh your memory, going back to the letter I had Tori post several months ago, my name is Glenn Stevenson. I visited the Inn this summer with my son, Mason, and a friend of mine named Leon. When I left, I was Peter Malinowski, Leon was Peter's wife Meredith, and a woman named Cathy became their son Trevor, while my own son became a girl named Brooke, who had been reported as missing after she snuck out to have a tryst with Trevor and never returned.

It has been hard to maintain contact with Mason since then, as Brooke's parents have kept a close watch on "her." It didn't help matters that she was native to Maine, and the Malinowskis were based out of Delaware. I was obligated to take my makeshift family, leave my own son behind, and go live Peter's life... for a while anyway.

Leon, understandably, handled the change less than gracefully, complaining about becoming "my bitch" (his words, not mine!!) because Meredith was a housewife and Peter made enough money to support them both. I told him things could be worse, and if he wouldn't mind just taking care of the house, he could have as much of Peter's money as he wanted. He decided to hire a maid while he slept until 11, hung around the house in a bathrobe, and drank constantly.

I was dismayed at the cost, but I didn't give him too much of a hard time about it. He's not exactly a Domestic, I've seen the place where he really lives. The arrangement was going fine, with us more or less just continuing as some kind of roommates until mid-November, when one night Leon called me into his room (the master bedroom - I'm sleeping in the guest room.) I came to see what the fuss was. And he was just lying there on top of the covers in some sexy underwear, propped up on his arm in a seductive posture. I was confused until I noticed the empty bottle of wine next to the bed.

"What's going on?" I asked.

"Nothing," he said, "I just thought we could have some fun tonight. We've waited long enough."

"Waited for what?" I said.

"Come on..." he said, crossing the room to stand in front of me, "I've seen the way you look at me. How long's it been, Glenn? A year? Two? I know you want it. You know you think about it."

"You're drunk."

"So what?" he scoffed, "I'm about to let myself get violated, I needed to loosen up."

"I didn't ask for this," I calmly replied.

"You didn't have to!" he said. "I'm giving it to you! I've been an asshole to you and it's the least I can do."

"I don't know what to say..." I said.

"I'm not hearing a no..." Leon said, unbuckling my belt.

I took a step back. "Wait a minute, let me think." I was very flustered. "We've never talked about this."

"Come on Glenn," he said, "I don't have all night."

"What brought this on?" I asked.

"Don't ask," he said impatiently, "Don't ask any more questions, just fuck me, or get out."

I looked him up and down. It was a sad mess. He had even tried some makeup, and really botched it bad. I didn't feel like I could possibly perform in that condition. I told him good night, and he responded with a lengthy stream of epithets, mostly questioning my manhood and sexuality.

I couldn't sleep, so I went downstairs to have a snack. It as around midnight when I heard the car pull up - it was Cathy. When he passed by the kitchen, I asked where he'd been.

"Where've you been?" I asked.

"None of your business," he snapped back.

"Woah, woah," I said, following after, "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound judgmental or anything. Sometimes I forget you're not my real son and I get protective. Let's try this, one adult to another. How was your evening, what did you get up to?"

He lightened up a little. He explained he was on a "group meetup" with some of Trevor's friends.

"Can I ask you something?" I asked, "Do you feel like you're fitting in?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know," I groaned, "Do you like it? Being a kid again? Being a boy? Do you feel weird about it or does it seem natural?"

"It feels all right," he said, "I feel more confident in myself than the first time around, obviously. The kids seem to be accepting me. The more I act like I belong, the more I do. It's classic high school."

"Uh huh,"  I said, taking a bite of my baloney sandwich, "Do you have a girlfriend?"

He paused. I know he does have one, but he may have thought I didn't notice. I wanted to hear him say it.

"There's a girl," he finally admitted. "We... do stuff."

"Have you two... you know? Been together?"

"No, she's not ready."

"But you're ready?" I asked, "If she wanted to, would you?"

"Keep in mind, you're not really my dad," Cathy said, "But yeah. If she wanted to, I would. I like her."

"What do you mean you like her? You're a 42-year-old woman, for God's sakes."

"Nobody knows that but you and me and Drunky up there," he said. "I won't take advantage of her, but I wouldn't reject her either. She could do a lot worse than me."

"What makes you want to do this?" I asked.

"Because I'm a guy now, and I'm loaded with testosterone, and it would feel good. Physically and emotionally." He paused, "Why are you asking about all this? If you're trying to talk me out of it..."

"No, no," I said, "This is about me, and, well... Leon, I guess."

Cathy smiled. "Oh, did he come onto you?"

"You knew he was going to do that?"

"I thought he might," he snickered, "He bent my ear all night last Thursday about the way you look at Lila, and how gross it was and how if you wanted some action he was right there and you never even asked. I think he's feeling really gross about his body, and honestly, I think if you were into him, that would really reassure him."

"I see..." I said. (Lila is the housekeeper, and while she is a rather attractive young woman I didn't see myself as "looking" at her any particular way.)

"Would you? Get with Leon?"

I thought for a minute. I honestly didn't know.

It never occurred to me. You read about the kind of rewiring the transformation does to people, but Leon was such a "guy" to me that I didn't think he would see me as a potential partner.

I went back up to the bedroom, unsure what I'd find. Leon was there, naked and sobbing. When he noticed me standing in the doorway, he yelled "Get away, creep!" Except instead of "creep" he used a homophobic slur.

"Leon," I said, "I had no idea what you were going through."

"Shut the fuck up, I'm not going through anything."

I considered wrapping my arms around him,  He didn't push me away. Eventually, through his sobs, he said, "I don't know what the fuck's wrong with me. This body sucks so much."

"Look, man," I said, "I never thought about... doing that with you. I'm... I guess I'm not against it, if it's something you want. I'm just not ready yet."

"You expect me to just sit here and wait?" he said bitterly.

"You can do whatever you want," I said, "You're your own person. We're not married. Not really. But I could be ready... sometime soon, if this is seriously what you want. It was just really surprising tonight, that's all."

"Whatever... I wasn't really feeling like it anyway," he said, leaning his head on my shoulder. "You smell good, though. That's so weird." I didn't know what to say, so I pecked him on top of the head and let him fall asleep.

And that's the strange story of how Leon and I became a sort of a real couple.

It's not like this was something I initiated from the start and actively worked toward. It took several weeks of consideration before I could properly revisit the issue in December, and even now we're still trying to figure out what this all means... we've both got a long history of failed relationships, and so I'm trying to be reasonable and manage expectations and maybe, I don't know, negotiate to get a "deal" that both of us will enjoy. And yes, that actually does involve some physical intimacy, but I'm a bit uncomfortable talking too much about that because I know my son is likely going to read this.

I guess, when you think about it... after all this, and despite our burgeoning relationship, I still call Leon a "him" but I also call Cathy, who has equally assimilated the role of a teenage boy, "him" as well. So maybe it's inaccurate to say women are the crazy ones. Maybe it's men. And hey, maybe it's me.

Innbox: The Stevensons

Tori here! I thought I would take a break from updating you on the sordid details of my life to dig into our inbox. Since I set up the new account we've had some correspondences with a few fellow Inn victims, some of whom have agreed to share their stories but don't want to make themselves regular contributors here (not that they wouldn't be welcome.) In fact, our first write-in comes from someone who was at the Inn not long after one of our familiar faces...

Don't forget, if you have an experience you'd like to share with us, please contact us at TradingPostStories@outlook.com! All are welcome!

--

Dear Trading Post,

I have spent weeks attempting to decide whether this site is legitimate or not, whether I could feel comfortable sharing my story. But reading over the accounts from this summer, the timing and details line up. I can tell that what happened to me was indeed shared by people who are writing at this site. I feel satisfied that we are in, as much as can ever be expeted from the internet, a safe space. But all the same, I will proceed cautiously.

My name, by birth, is Glenn Stevenson. I work in middle management at a delivery company in Illinois. I am 47 years old, balding, with a wiry frame and angular features. At least, that's the image I have of myself in my mind's eye. The story in the mirror is quite different, albeit not as much so as some of those who write here. I would never compare what I have gone through personally with some of the traumas many of you have faced, but the curse did hit those around me quite badly.

I was a visitor to the Inn in late July 2015, just after Tyler and Meg were there according to this blog. I was visiting with my 17-year-old son, Mason (not his real name, but I will use it henceforth) and a friend of mine, Leon, whom I had befriended at a support group for divorced men. Which is to say, he needed a drinking buddy, and glommed onto me. When someone from our group recommended a trip to Maine to clear my head and bond with my son, Leon tagged along.

It was important to me to spend quality time with my son this summer. His mother and I split up when he was very young, and I did not see him very much because they moved often. Then a year ago, she accepted a position working with underprivileged communities in Central America and he wanted to stay in the States, so he moved in with me. Suddenly I was a full-time father again for the first time in nearly a decade - and my son was practically a stranger. It was a very difficult school year for him - he is (or was) quite overweight, shy and introverted, and while I don't necessarily oppose the way his mother raised him, I would like to think I would have helped him learn to get out of his shell if I was around, a valuable skill when you are always the new kid in town. Instead, he seemed behind, a bit immature for his age, smart but not socially comfortable yet.

From the moment we arrived, I struggled getting much interaction with him - he is very enamored of screens and not so much the beach - and neither of us were particularly fond of the rustic, almost haunted stillness of the Inn. Leon seemed unfazed, though, and started drinking as planned as soon as we arrived. It became clear that I had to spend more time attending to my friend than my son, especially when he would leer and make comments at some of the female beachgoers. There was a single woman in our age group, Cathy, in one of the rooms, but Leon dismissed her (a shame since she seemed interested in him and I didn't see him doing any better,) and focussed on younger ladies to the point of almost starting a fistfight at one of the bars in town with some college boys whose girls he was chatting up. I did my best to run interference and not encourage him.

It was a few days in. I had taken to letting Leon sleep in my room so that I could keep an eye on him, and Mason was sleeping in Leon's room a couple of doors down. I woke up at 4 AM to various cries for help and some shuffling in other rooms. I tried to shake Leon awake, to no avail. Sensing something amiss, I immediately rushed to my where my son as sleeping to make sure he was ok.

I knocked on the door and called in, "Mason? It's dad..." I started to turn the knob and softly open the door, in case he was asleep. "Mason? I'm coming in."

"Dad?" answered a decidedly unfamiliar voice. "What's happening?"

I clicked on the light and I did not see my son. I saw a very thin girl with curly brown hair propped up in bed wearing my son's Wolverine tee shirt.

"Who are you? Where's Mason?" I was in some proportion angry and scared, but mostly confused because it wasn't like my son to invite strange girls to sleep in his bed.

Especially when the next words out of her mouth were "I'm Mason. Who are you?"

I was about to say "No you're not," which seemed absurd to have to say, but she seemed shocked at the sound of her own voice. She held out a long strand of hair in her fingertips, pulling its curls straight, which she gaped at in awe and horror, like it was the first time she had ever seen it. I could see a strange wave of understanding come over her face.

She whipped the covers off her legs and examined them, as if for the first time. I wasn't sure what I was looking at at all, but she was wearing my son's boxers, which were way too big for her. She pulled the elastic band away and gaped for a moment at what she found, in further surprise.

"No way, no...!" she gasped. "What? What happened?"

I turned my head away, modestly.

She stood, grabbed the shorts to hold them up, then sat down woozily. She just stared in space.

"Listen, I want an explanation," I demanded. "Where is my son? Where is Mason Stevenson?" Around this moment, when I raised my voice, I started to notice its timbre wasn't quite right. And neither was the hand I was waving at him, which lacked my telltale wristwatch tan and (ahem) hairy knuckles. I got distracted examining it.

"Is it you? Dad?" the girl asked. "Are you Glenn Stevenson?"

"How do you know my name?" I asked with suspicion and irritation.

"I'm your son," she said, looking at me, seemingly on the brink of tears, "I'm Mason. Is this a dream, or did this really happen?"

And so, the day proceeded. It took me a moment to fully process, but seeing the face of one Peter Malinowski in the mirror (so the matching I.D. later informed me,) a rather ruggedly handsome individual with a strong hairline and jaw, if a bit of a paunch that I was starting to become aware of as I moved about more during the day. My concern was for my son - something strange had happened to all of us at the Inn, and as a young man now in the unfamiliar body of a female, he was at the most vulnerable, emotionally. I mustered every bit of parenting I could to get him through that day. And he just sat there, quietly detached, with this blank look on his new face, trying to process it. And I had to pretend like I knew everything would be ok.

I returned to my room and held my breath as I flicked on the light, unsure what I would find: there lay a middle-aged woman sprawled face-down on the side of the bed where Leon had been sleeping. Leon was now Peter's wife, Meredith. And when he woke up, he was not pleased about it.

I tried to break it to him gently, watching over him until he stirred, and asking "Leon, are you awake? I've got some bad, weird news, so brace yourself." He seemed to understand and accept that we had transformed, pretty quickly all things considered, (after a lengthy round of "What the fuck, what the fuck, holy shit, I've got a p*ssy," etc.) He would not stop complaining about it, saying I should be the "chick" and he the "dude." I told him I didn't know how we ended up like we did.

A couple of girls - the real Lauren and Tasha, who had arrived at the Inn under the guise of a young married couple (I had seen them but paid no mind) - took us aside and explained the finer details, after we had picked up most of the broad strokes. While we were conferring, I caught my son fidgeting and examining parts of his body.

"Mase!" I hissed, "Don't touch--- uh, I mean, go someplace private, okay?" He went back to the room, sullen and embarrassed. I wasn't sure what the protocol should be, but I didn't want to give him the impression that his body wasn't his to touch. Still, if I had a daughter, I wouldn't want her fidgeting with her breasts in a crowd of strangers. Leon as doing the same, but I couldn't stop him from doing so. I just wanted him to set more of an example.

"Okay, I'm a chick but do I have to be such an ugly one?" Leon said, examining Meredith's face in the mirror. I wouldn't describe her as ugly, only that she looked her age, which incidentally was still younger than Leon by a bit. She was in her early 40's, with short, light-colored hair, and a few frown lines, bags under her eyes... with a thin waist, but very round hips and thighs, and breasts that Leon described, disturbingly, as "Sag-a-licious."

"Leon, I understand we're all shocked, but could you keep your attitude more appropriate while my son is around? Try to be positive? He doesn't need to dwell on the negatives situation."

Leon scoffed and used some more vulgar language to describe his new appearance. He started drinking quickly.

Tasha and Lauren instructed us that we could probably find some kind of letter or note explaining who the Malinowskis were and what had become of them, and an impassioned plea to safeguard their lives. It seemed the responsible thing to do, if burdensome. But their letter made no mention of a daughter, only a son - Trevor. I had seen a strapping teenage boy around the Inn over the morning but hadn't had time to ask who he was or anything. That turned out to be Cathy, whose appearance inspired jealousy in Leon. She didn't seem too fazed by it either, all things considered.

The note that Trevor had left her was the one that chilled me... because the Malinowski didn't have a daughter. The girl my son now appeared to be was a local girl who snuck away from her parents to spend the night with Trevor. That explained why the baggage we found there wasn't for her, and there was only the barest minimum of personal effects for her stashed away in Trevor's room: one clearly worn set of clothes, and a clutch purse containing a hastily-written note that agreed with Trevor's. It identified her as Brooke Shaner.

I had even seen a posting asking for information on her whereabouts. People were looking for her, and if my son was now her, then taking him across state lines, either to the Malinowski's home in Delaware or mine in Illinois, would be a felony. My heart completely stopped as I realized my only options were to break the law or surrender my son to strangers, leaving him alone and vulnerable and trapped in a strange body that didn't match his mind.

I mulled it over for a bit and concluded Mason was old enough to be involved in the discussions. So at the end of the day I sat him down on the bed. He was a sad sight, shoulders hunched, hair tangled over his girlish face, which was red and streaked by dried tears he clearly didn't want me to see.

"Hey, buddy, listen. We are in a really tough situation right now. You understand, right? What's happened to us?"

"Uh huh," he sighed. "I'm... I turned into a girl."

"Right," I said, "A specific girl. Someone who is missing, someone whose parents are worried right now. And as a parent, I understand what they're going through. And if you walked through their door right now, they would be very happy, very relieved. But if I let that happen, I would feel like I was abandoning you. I have a responsibility to you. And if you don't want to go, I will do my best to protect you and keep you safe."

"I'm so confused," he sniffed, choked up, "You want me to go live with strangers?"

"No I don't want that at all," I insisted, "But like I said, it's a tough choice. And we're going to make it together. I can't get us back to our own lives, our own bodies, but that doesn't mean... I don't think it means we're stuck. Not forever. I'm going to get us out of this."

He froze for a moment, then said quietly, "I don't want to go."

I wrapped my arms around him. He resisted at first - hugs were always kind of an awkward moment between us and now he was in a body that wasn't his and clearly uncomfortable just being touched - but he wrapped his thin arms around me, and I said into his ears "It's going to be okay, I love you, it's going to be okay."

I didn't sleep at all that night. Partly was that after waking up to such a shock, you find it difficult to get comfortable in the Inn. Partly, I was head-to-toe with Leon and had his Meredith-feet in my face (he first demanded I sleep on the floor but I told him that wasn't feasible.) Mostly I was trying to come up with ways to smuggle my son out of the state. Would we go to Illinois first, or Delaware? Would they be looking for her at the airport, or would we have to drive? What if we cut her hair, disguised her with make-up... would we have to hide her in the trunk?

KNOCK KNOCK.

A loud rapping at the door at 6 am. Oh, no, I thought, what now.

My worst fears: a pair of police officers were canvassing the Inn holding a picture of Brooke. "Sorry to wake you sir, but we got a tip that this girl might be at this Inn."

I had to think quick and stammered, "I, um... I think..." I sighed, reluctantly, "Yeah, I think I saw her but I don't know if she's still here."

"But she was here?"

I tried to backpedal "I don't know, there was a girl here but I didn't get a... uh, good look at her."

"Do you mind if we search your room? Just as a precaution."

"I, um... yeah, sure." I gritted my teeth, trying to figure out a way to stall them.

Leon stirred, deeply hung over, "What the fuck, Glenn?"

"These cops are looking for a missing girl... honey," I said, playing husband.

One of them asked, "Your name, sir?"

"P-Peter..." it took me a moment to recall "my" new last name, "Melanski." I got it wrong, but they didn't check. They also didn't ask why my "wife" had called me "Glenn." Leon just laid there, muttering "Fuckin' pigs" under his breath while I tried to hush him.

As soon as they left I scrambled for my phone to text Mason, but I paused... if I warned him, it could be incriminating. If I did anything I could be in trouble. I froze.

I watched them bring my son outside to the Shaner family, who were waiting for their daughter.

I had failed.

When Mason turned to look at me, with a look of fear and confusion on his face, I mouthed, "I tried, I'm so sorry. I love you."

I felt like the worst father, the worst person ever.

I had waited a day to contact the real Malinowskis, currently in Albany, because I didn't know what my plan was going to be. Now it felt like nothing I did mattered, so I agreed to take Leon and Cathy to Delaware. The real Peter is an amenable person, which probably is partly due to currently feeling helplessly trapped in the body of a ten-year-old girl. We started working on plans right away to get everyone back where they belonged, but I could only think of my son.

I worried the whole way about how I was going to contact him, how I was going to rescue him. I didn't have a phone number for Brooke, and he had left his phone in his/Leon's room. But Cathy reminded me that kids today have a huge social media presence, and he would probably still check his own Facebook profile.

I sent him a message from mine: "We are in Delaware. Tell me if you're OK. I still want to help you, to fix this."

It wasn't until the next day that I got a reply: "I'm ok."

I didn't press him for more details, but if I'm being honest, I wanted to shake him until he told me everything he had been through. I had a hard enough time getting two words out of him when things were normal, and now we were separated and there was a chance I'd never see him again. I asked for more details as politely as I could and he just said "Don't really wanna talk about it. Sorry."

I want him to feel like he can come to me, but now there's this huge wedge between us... he's going through something that I can't fully comprehend, and we're so far apart it's like I'm not even his dad. I don't know what to do... but I'm determined to do something.

Anyway, that's my story. So far. Thanks for hearing me out.

-Glenn, "Peter Malinowski" Stevenson

Postscript: I have invited Mr. Stevenson to take part in our blog, and would extend that invitation to any member of his "family." His response was that it took him so long to compose this letter that he didn't see regular contributions as practical, but would consider checking in when he was able to, hopefully when there is good news. Best of luck! -T.

Tyler: Lauren no more.

I could sort of feel it in the air last night, but I was worried it was just my imagination. The preliminary... whatever it is. It was like a small skin irritation that spread slowly from the middle of my body outward. I could actually feel it starting around 2 AM, but I was so exhausted I fell back asleep for a few hours while it, I guess, happened.

I woke up around 4:10 AM, woozy, but seriously alert once I realized it was probably already over with. I was sleeping naked on top of the covers, but it was dark in the room. I sat up and got lightheaded, because suddenly "up" was a lot further of a journey than it used to be. But I also didn't feel the familiar counterweight of my breasts pulled down toward the floor as I did so. My one arm went to confirm, it was a flat, lightly-haired chest, and the other rushed to my crotch to feel the new equipment there.

And I have to say I maybe was a bit too enthusiastic there, because I didn't know the exact dimensions of it, and... well, there's no easy way to put this. Within a minute of realizing I was a man again, I had punched myself almost full-force in the testes. Agh. Sort of a bittersweet homecoming.

I hobbled over to the bathroom mirror to find that the transformation was... mostly complete. There were still some vestiges of Lauren. My chest was flat, but the breast tissue was still converting into muscle, I suppose, because they were still very tender. And then there was my face... a really warped version of Lauren's, with a man's jaw and hairline. I had to look away... it was like being warped in a funhouse mirror, except for real. I actually had to look away, I found it a little disturbing.

I cleared my throat and said the first thing that came to mind, "Testing, testing. My name is Lauren. No, it isn't." Sufficiently deep, I supposed.

I checked my reflection again fifteen minutes later. I no longer looked like Lauren in any sense. In her place was this very tall, very skinny man with a wide, toothy mouth and short, curly, sandy blond hair. A chill went up my spine. I was almost overwhelmed.

There were two sets of luggage in the closet of my room: one man and one woman. The man was Alan Schmidt, 24, of Milwaukee, WI. The woman was Greta Johansen, 23, whose ID indicated she was from Minnesota. The ID also indicated she was 5'11, so I figured she would stand out.

I dumped out Alan's luggage and found something I could throw on - a pair of gym shorts and a tank top. I was about to head to Meg's room when I heard two knocks on my door.

I opened it and looked down - way down, at a face I had not seen in over a year, cheeks streaked with tears, I assume of joy. She looked slightly different, but it was her. She craned her neck up at me and gasped, "Holy..." then collected herself, and ask-stated "Ty?"

I grinned as widely as my new mouth could (which apparently is a lot.) "Yeah. Yeah! It's me!"

She fell into my long arms and I wrapped them around her. We laughed so hard in relief we couldn't breathe. "I was so worried! I was so worried." she just kept repeating. "I know, I know," I said back. My heart was beating faster and faster. I couldn't believe our luck. We had to get all this joy out of our system, though, because as far as we knew we had 11 newly-transformed people to explain things to. We kept saying back and forth "I can't believe it, I can't believe it..."

We didn't hear any signs of panic, yet, so we took a moment to read over Alan's "letter." It was actually just a brief paragraph summarizing Alan's understanding of the curse, followed by a series of bullet points:

• Name, home address, e-mail address
• Works as a driver for Thrio, an Uber-like service
• Has lived with girlfriend Greta for the past year of their four-year relationship
• Current whereabouts (To be discussed at a later date)
• Parents Jack and Mary, 2 sisters Helen (27, married, 1 son) and Doreen (22, single) and a younger brother Jack Jr., (19, with a special note: "Jack is gay and you had better be nice to him. Mom and dad don't know yet." No problem.)
• Allergic to strawberries, lactose intolerant (gee, must have sucked growing up in Wisconsin then.)

When you put it all out on paper like that, it seems like there's not that much to taking over someone's life. And in truth, that's just it... you're given their face and the strange trust of everyone around you that you are who you say you are, and that's half the work right there. The other half is simply not screwing up what's been given to you. There's this old saying I heard, "Leave the fridge fuller when you leave" that seems to have guided me during my year as Lauren.

I did laugh about being assigned a job as a professional driver... I don't mind driving, but I haven't done much of it this past year. Could be bad.

Once we felt settled with what had happened to ourselves, we decided it was time to start gathering people and explaining what we knew. We had made a few friends (and some not-very-friendly acquaintances)  in our short time in Maine, so we felt it behooved us to help them handle this any way we could. At the very least, one of them would be in the body of Alan's girlfriend, with her appropriate clothes and "welcome" letter in my room. I brought it along with Greta's ID.

We figured "Greta" must be in one of the adjacent rooms. In the room to my left was Erin and Rosie. Since we were closest with them, I knocked on their door first. I was about to speak, but Meg went first, saying that if they heard a man's voice they might feel threatened.

"Rosie? Erin? Are you in there?" We heard the sound of some bodies moving around. "Listen, it's... Tasha... and Lauren... if something happened to you, it's okay, it happened to us too."

I stood behind Meg in a non-threatening position. The door opened a crack. A man's eyeball was visible. He looked us over, and gasped "Oh my God." He opened the door wide enough for us to come in.

He was white and about six inches shorter than me. Probably 150 pounds soaking wet, with short dark hair and a tan complexion, with a towel wrapped around his waist. Sitting on the bed was a tall African-American guy with his head in his hands and a blanket covering his lap.

We looked back and forth between the two: "So, who..."

"Erin," said the white guy, meekly holding his hand up. He pointed across the room, "Rosie." Rosie gave a slight embarrassed wave.

"I know the feeling," I said bashfully, "You might remember me as Lauren."

"I can't believe this," Erin gasped. "What happened? What is... did it happen to all of us?"

"Yeah," I said, "Sit down, we need to talk."

We gave them the short version, about how we had been at the Inn a year ago and it turned us into Lauren and Tasha, and how we came back to get our bodies back, emphasizing that it was possible - not a guarantee, but emphasizing that this definitely wasn't permanent.

We searched the room and found that the original owners of those bodies had left their luggage under the bed rather than in the closet. They were Brooklyn natives: Erin was now Chris DeVito, and Rosie was Ahmir Johnson.

The four of us then proceeded to the room to the other side of mine, but it had emptied.  We kept knocking on doors and doing our best to reach out. It didn't appear that anyone besides Meg and myself were second-timers.

We found some young girls, ten-year-old twins. They identified themselves as Trevor's parents. I asked where Trevor was, and they brought me to him. In his room were a man and a woman - apparently the parents of the two girls. The man - probably about 36 or so, paunchy with a shaved head and a beard - stood and identified himself as Trevor. 

I guess he didn't turn out too bad, considering the possibilities, and what happened to his parents. But aging close to twenty years overnight is not a perfect situation either.

We discerned they were the Jenkinses, from upstate New York, also parents to a 13-year-old boy who had not yet appeared. The Jenkins wife/mother was sitting cross-legged on the bed, weeping. I asked who Trevor that was, and he explained that he had met a girl at the club the night we went out, and had snuck her into his room a few nights since. That made me make an involuntary groan of exasperation.

I felt bad that he had brought someone else into this, but it was more or less the same thing that happened to me and Meg, so I was hardly in a place to judge. I paid her a little extra sympathy - not that everyone else didn't deserve some, but she wasn't even supposed to be at the Inn, and now she dragged into it. Her parents will think she went missing, and she has little choice but to go off with strangers and pretend to be wife to Trevor of all people.

I was starting to get stressed, taking stock of who was ending up where and making sure everyone was OK, when I spotted her, this tall, willowy girl with dark hair down her back. Greta. She was dressed in clothes that didn't really fit her long body.

"Hey!" I called out, probably too aggressively, "Hey, excuse me!"

She glanced at me and then went for the door.

I dashed after her, almost tripping over my long legs, "Hey! Sorry! I didn't mean to scare you! I just... you're... sorry, I mean, who are you? Do you know what's happening?"

"We're leaving," she said sharply, "That's what's happening. I don't know who you people are or what you think you're doing here..."

"We changed. And you did too," I said simply, "We... we can explain. I can help. My name is Tyler, but when I came here my name was Lauren Sherman, you might have seen me around, an 18-year-old girl..."

Her eyes bugged out, "Lauren? You're that... you were... you have something to do with this?"

"I didn't... not exactly, but I know something about it. Sorry, who are you?"

Her demeanor relaxed and she held her arms out for a hug. "It's Kitty, darling!"

Oh, great.

I reluctantly let her hug me - we were practically eye-to-eye. I went on, "Yeah, it got all of us who were staying at the Inn... um, I don't mean to be rude, but what happened to your husband?"

"He's in the car," she sighed. "We were just going to go home, all this spooky stuff really freaked us out. My heart is still racing!"

She took me over to where a 13-year-old boy was sitting in the passenger's seat of her Lexus SUV, sulking. We had found the missing Jenkins kid.

I told them not to go just yet, we had a lot of stuff to sort out.

Sorry, this has taken a long time out of my day to write and I need to address some things. Will be back later. I can't wait until I have a minute to feel, somewhat shamefully, good about what's happened to me.

Tyler/Lauren: Cinderella

Yeah, still Lauren.

With any luck the changeover will be tonight. I'm sick of sleepless nights, waiting to find out what's going to happen. I want my new life to begin already, whatever it is.

A few more people arrived at the Inn in time for the weekend, but curiously not enough to set off the magic mojo that we're here for. I'm trying not to let it get to me. It's going to happen... I still don't think Meg is right to get freaked. Sure, we don't really understand anything about it... but we've got all these patterns worked out, I feel like we can make assumptions.

All this to say I'm itching to get a new change of clothes.

One of the groups that arrived after us (bringing the total to 10 or 11 for the weekend) had something I really dreaded... a teenage son, Trevor. He's taller than me, but pretty average-looking, with shaggy black hair and the rank odor of an average teenage boy. He caught up to me in the hall on Saturday and told me there was an all-ages party in town that night. Okay, cabin fever is really starting to get to me, so despite this obvious attempt to put the moves on me, I agreed to go along.

Meg disapproved, but I told her we could fight about it later.

It was okay. We arrived at 9. There was a band playing a few songs I recognized, stuff like "Bittersweet Symphony" and "When I Come Around." I mostly sat around the patio making chit chat, gravitating toward the girls until the got picked up one by one by the guys.

By 11, I was feeling pretty antsy. Some of what Meg was saying was getting to me, about needing to stay around the Inn, how it was unpredictable and how me not being there could really mess things up.  I started to feel a bit self conscious... I may not be getting my body back like Meg, but I still plan to give Lauren hers. I thought about how Meg didn't even stay the night when she changed into Tasha... I wonder if I could have the opposite problem.

So around then, I went and found Trevor (who had made a few early, lame attempts to hit on me and then gave up) and told him I needed to go back to the Inn. He told me to chill, the night was just getting started, I was a big girl and my "sister" shouldn't worry about me. I told him I just wasn't feeling it anymore.

He told me to have a nice walk.

Ugh, okay. So in the moment I didn't really have a problem with this... it was a 40-minute walk back to the Inn, mostly in darkness, but I could stand it. But the longer I walked, the more I remembered I should probably be afraid. I have a certain amount of self-defence training, but I received it when I was bigger and could fight differently. Some basics are transferable but I guess I really wasn't thinking at first about how much of a target I could have been.

It hit me when I was about halfway home and I saw a group of guys coming the other way and I was seized with fear so strong I had to go hide in some bushes.

Now, they passed by, probably harmlessly, paid me no notice, and I felt not only the leftover panic-adrenaline, but also foolish. I wanted to sprint home, but I was in sandals.

Sometimes, being a girl doesn't agree with me.

When I got to the Inn, around quarter after midnight, Trevor's parents were playing cards. I debated telling them their son had left me to fend for myself, but instead explained that I had elected to leave on my own. I was pretty ashamed of myself, but they're going to have enough on their plate in the next few days... with any luck.

Today, Trevor feigned interest by asking if I had gotten home okay. Obviously I had. I asked him, coldly, if he had a nice time the rest of the night. He told me about this girl he was dancing with, "her tits were two-handers."

"How nice for you," I said, walking away. Meg and I had agreed to go to brunch with Rosie and Erin, and afterwards just lazed around talking about nothing in particular (which was a nice change of pace from some of the serious conversations we've been having lately.)

At one pint, Kitty came up to me and told me that I had woken her up when I came home the night before, and it was rude of me not to think of the others sharing this small space with me. I had to roll my eyes at that one. "Thanks for the input," I sighed in my most dismissive teen girl way possible, and tried to convince myself not to be glad if something really bad happens to her in the transformation.

This place is really starting to lose its appeal. The change better happen soon.