It should be a relaxing day - drop my gym clothes in the washing machine, get down to reading a book about Hitler in Antartica... but no. My thoughts cycled with all the diseases I surely had, how their presence floats through my blood just dying to be analyzed by some computer. I had taken a blood test the day before and I was anxious to see my results, as I figured I was overdue for something bad to happen.
Why did you have to take a blood test, Mr. Fraud?
Well, I had an idea for a scheme.
A few weeks ago, a good friend of mine reached out to me and let me know that he has recently added HGH to his ever revolving stock of drugs for sale. I had previously told him about how I had ordered ‘research chemicals’ (RAD-140 and MK-677, to be exact) and they were ‘compromised’ going through customs.
No trouble, just a nasty letter letting me know my package was seized and no medically assisted gains in my future.Naturally, I was interested. He was a reliable drug dealer, trustworthy. I considered this a sign from God.
I wasn’t expecting black market pharmaceuticals to be cheap - I assumed they must be reasonably priced just due to the amount of trans people I see in my neighborhood - but I was surprised by just how much a cycle was going to cost me.
Is it because I have a boutique drug dealer, one that specializes in selling to ‘art people’ like me? Am I a rube, oris this just the cost of aesthetic perfection?
Finally, it hit me. A genius idea. Leaping from my desk, I clear my chalkboard with my forearm to compose a plan:
Step 1: Book doctor appointment, complain of fatigue and no sex drive. Request a blood test due to concerns about my testosterone levels.
Step 2: Soymaxx to tank my test - eat a strict soy/alcohol/junk food diet for a few days to decimate my system.
Step 3: Bloodtest shows I have low testosterone.
Step 4: I get legal drugs at a reasonable price in order to ‘fix my ailment.’
Step 5: Profit (physically).
This sounds like an easy victory for someone as smart as me. I could easily scam a blood test. I am very smart and resourceful, after all.
I read about all the foods that lower testosterone - soy, processed nonsense cooked in vegetable oil, flaxseed - and decide that my main task is to eat like shit.
I had a few days before my blood test, so I bought a bunch of soymilk and drank two liters a day. It made me unbelievably tired and miserable - i’m still so lethargic that
it’s hard for me to stay up and write these notes to myself.
I crave McDonald’s, Netflix. I want to sit on the couch and let the beta energy consume me.
The internet says I need to drink beer, eat candy, not exercise. I need mint and licorice root tea. I need tofu burgers fried in vegetable oil - and i’ll do it: a small price to pay to get my insurance to pay for my TRT pills or creams or whatever it is.
I’m bloated, my skin looks awful. Haven’t shaved, showered. I look like the soyboy wojak. Sleeping less than five hours will reduce your test by 15%, I read. No problem. I can drink Mountain Dew while watching Seinfeld at 3am.
Eating garbage and loafing about is an unremarkable task - I don’t even have any witty remarks about the time spent doing this. After two consecutive days of being useless, I wanted to stay this way forever: indoors, cozy on a couch, braindead. It’s a great way to live if you’re programmed this way. Maybe I am, maybe that’s why it feels so natural.
Maybe I betray my instinct to languish and die every time I go to the gym.
The doctor appointment comes quicker than expected. I pass my pallid reflection before taking the routine morning piss when it dawns on me - there’s no boner. No morning wood. I can’t believe it. This is probably the first time in my adult life where I wasn’t struggling to navigate how to piss with a furious post-sleep hard-on. I consider this a success.
I whistle a little song as I chug a liter of soymilk, convinced of the successful execution of my most retarded project yet.
The nurse, featureless behind several layers of covid protection, took my blood without uttering a single word. After bandaging my speck of a wound, she placed a plastic container in my left hand.
She either says ‘now piss’ or ‘now this;’ it’s impossible to be certain.
I perform the requested act in the standardized vessel. I return it to the lady who immediately affixes a ‘hazardous’ sticker to the top before leading me to the credit card terminal that declares this visit as officially over.
Stepping outside, I squint into the sun. The soyification has made me photosensitive! I need to have a steak and some oysters or something.
(Some time passes.)
A week or so goes by. Doctor leaves me a voicemail telling me that my bloodwork came back great, nothing to worry about. Great? I don’t know what ‘great’ means in this context. I call back immediately, asking for a more in-depth analysis other than ‘great.’
‘Yeah, your testosterone is great. Nothing low there. Maybe you’re just depressed and that’s killing your sex drive. Congratulations, you’re perfectly healthy.’
‘That’s it? I have no problems?’
‘None that I can fix, at least.”
Hanging up, I check my email to see a PDF detailing my blood and piss contents. Yep, everything is either ‘normal’ or ‘above normal but a good thing.’ Red blood cells, great. Cholesterol, good.
Then I see it: testosterone - 610 ng/dl. Smaller red text beneath declares that <300 ng/dl is considered ‘low.’
That settles it: i’m simply too powerful. All that soy was no match for my unadulterated masculine prowess. I should have known better.
All of those processed veggie burgers and tofu-substitute chicken fingers couldn’t bring me down, offered me nothing but a stomach ache. I did a bad job of being a lazy loser.Soy is a mindset, after all.
I sort-of expected this, so I glance to the envelope labelled ‘plan B’ on my desk.
I consulted with a dietician friend with the best ways to drive my T count through the roof. He gave me a list of the expected foods (eggs, spinach, radish, banana, lamb) and supplements (ashwagandha, tribulus, d-aspartic) which, even though this was not new information, was useful in terms of reaffirming that I can drive my count higher.
One way or another, I need to have obnoxious amounts of testosterone in my blood. I want to stink of toxic masculinity. I want every woman to succumb to pheromonal submission as they pass me on the street.
I want to smell like a forest animal in heat.
It’s not that I want to fuck the staring lady on the subway, I just want her to be aware that I could if I wanted to.
I can’t help but laugh as I text my dealer to see if he still has any of that Androgel or Testim we talked about last week.
Thank you to the guys at the Betaverse for having me on to half-talk about TLZ this past week. I haven’t been talking much in my new isolated life so I ramble on about conceptual poetry to how all representative politics are gay, but maybe that’s your kind-of thing: it’s mine, after all.
The Lifestyle Zoo is now up as a free PDF (alongside every other book) if you don’t wanna spend the eleven bucks to buy a real copy.