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Twenty years ago, when I was eight years old, I wrote an essay. The assignment was to picture my life twenty years from then and write what I imagined. I imagined myself living in a nice apartment or house, with a good job, and a handsome husband and maybe even a kid. I sat there and held that paper in my hands, thinking about my life. Here I was, with a great job, actually a career, and I had a guy who I hoped wanted to marry me. I was in a place in my life where many women would want to be, so I couldn't understand why I was completely miserable.

Despite the fact that I was on my way to having everything I had hoped to have by my age, I still felt like there was something missing; something I couldn't put my finger on. I wasn't ugly; I knew that. I was a fair-skinned brunette, with smallish breasts, a slender bod, and nice, well-shaped breasts. I looked a lot better than some girls my age. Still, my life felt fake in some way. I got my answer in a way I really wasn't expecting. one day, was sitting in the laundry room, reading some tattered novel, just waiting for the timer to finish on my wash. after a few pages, I could understand why this particular book was left behind. I closed the book, sat it down on the counter and stared at the timer that read :32 minutes, wondering what I was going to do to pass the time.

I was beginning to consider taking a nap right there, when I heard hurried footsteps coming towards the room. In walked a woman, dressed in men's clothes, The fancy kind you would see a businessman wearing. ...

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