According to Wikipedia:
Pica may refer to:
Pica (unit of measure), in typesetting and document layout
Pica (disorder), abnormal appetite for earth and other non-foods
Pica (genus), a genus of m->-bleeped-<-ie
Pica Press, a publishing imprint
Pica, Chile, city in the Tarapacá Region of Chile
Pica, Cumbria, a village in northwest England
Palestine Jewish Colonization Association, established by Edmond James de Rothschild
Píča, a geometric symbol used as a sexual reference in the Czech Republic and Slovakia
Pika, an animal in the order Lagomorpha, also known as rock rabbits or coneys
Pica, an alternative name for the grape Merille
DJ Pica Pica Pica (DJ 光光光), an alias used by Yamantaka Eye
Joe Pica, pianist
At the risk of repeating myself, one day toward the end of 8th grade I was at the home of my best friend, Jeanette, who was complaining that next year, in high school she would be required to wear dresses or skirts to school. As she continued complaining about such clothing, I sympathized, but allowed as how I had no experience wearing dresses. So, I wore one of hers the rest of the day. Her mother took a picture of me that is upstairs in my attic. I found it quite comfortable, but no, I did not pass. There's something about my face, bowed legs, and my hands and arms.
Pity. I pass for a man, but I'm not--not really. I remember complaining to Grete Zemans when we were six years old that I did not want my voice to change, nor did I want my face to sprout hair. And I remember standing in the drugstore, a young teenager, reading about the transformation of Christine Jorgenson. That appealed to me, but I had no intention of dating men, nor of presenting as a glamorous entertainer. I spoke of these feelings to no one.
I always thought that if I am not a man, I must be a woman, though I lacked a good idea of what that would be like. Stumbling on this group one year ago, I discovered that M and F are not the only alternatives. My body is clumsy, nobody's ideal, but it works, generally--and for that I am thankful and grateful. And I have very little body hair. Pica wrote recently of wanting to live to age 70; I am close enough to that age that I desire more than 70 years even though I, likely, will never look presentable in a two-piece swimsuit, a ball gown, or a woman's tailored suit.
My hope, then, is that my wife will treat me as her equal and best friend, and that, to borrow Pica's words, my friends here will think of me as cuter, prettier, far more graceful--oh, and maybe sweeter--than my actual embodiment. And that nobody will whip me!
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