Dancing Queen (Patreon)

Do we get to choose to be happy? 🤔

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I know I look happy. But I’m not. How could I be happy with what they did to me? Sure, the smile on my face is genuine. Yes, I have to admit I’ve never felt so free even though I’m a prisoner. But that’s, like, just a trick of the mind. Right?

I’m not supposed to have breasts. I’m not supposed to be wearing skirts.

Maybe it’s the music. Even when I first arrived, the music was the first “gift” I received. There was an old-timey cassette player. At first, I didn’t listen. But sitting in a silent room for weeks is a sort of torture. Eventually, I broke down and put on the headset just to hear something besides my own breathing.

The music was pop from the ’70s and ’80s. Not something I’d typically listen to, but catchy. Real catchy. Eventually, I was craving the music. It didn’t matter that I’d listen to the songs fifty times. 

That my body was changing didn’t elude me. I was growing tits, my butt was getting bigger. I understood the clothing they gave me was for a girl. Did I care? Yes! At least, at first. But then I’d put on my music, and I found my worries melted away and all I wanted to do was dance, dance, dance.

I know I’m not truly happy. But a beautiful illusion is still beautiful. Besides, what’s the alternative? The ugly truth. No thanks. I think I’ll just keep on dancing.