I crave the strength and certainty of steel. Troons cling to their flesh as if it will not decay and fail them. One day, the crude biomass that they call a temple will wither, and they will beg my kind to save them. But I am already saved, for the machine is immortal.

Hormones for transitioning are weak, unpredictable and pointless. Take the transhumanism pill, and wait. Wait to exchange your body for something more sturdy and customizable.