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In order to access certain sites or groups online, you must register.  I don’t have a problem with that.  But then they demand that you provide a dossier of yourself, at minimum your sex and your age.  “Are you a Mr., a Mrs., or a Ms.?”  Why should it matter to them?  Are they thinking of buying me a drink?

The age bit is already personal as it is, but I really must protest being categorized by my sex.

Like there are only two kinds of people on the planet.  Sheesh.

Yeah, yeah, I realize it’s for market-research purposes, but — dammit, if I were a typical whatever, it probably wouldn’t matter.  But I’m not ‘typical’ for my sex.

“Rites of Spring” india ink/paper © Ryl Mandus

While my sexual orientation is entirely hetero, my ‘gender’ is strongly androgynous.

So I get torqued when some schlock-slinging bozo comes up to me and tries to peddle his gender-oriented crap at me (Look, girlie, it’s PINK!  Buy it!), because of his bourgeois assumptions built on the foundation of reproductive anatomy, on which sexual organs I have or don’t have,….

Oh, that is just too personal.

My choices of dress, entertainment, art, and reading material are often questioned — and sometimes challenged — because of my sex, or because of my cerebral androgyny.  It was even worse when I was a kid.  Like it’s ever really anybody’s business but mine.

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