Text to friends, based entirely in fact and science:
“They put me on the pill and said I could start it whenever, so I did, but I think my body was already preparing its regular PMS festivities, and when I added bonus hormones I fucked up its groove, because now I hate goddamn everything except you guys and Egg McMuffins.”
Me: “We ended up talking about why I don’t consider myself ‘beautiful.’ She showed me a fucking Dove commercial. I’m never going back. (Kidding.)”
Friend: “No one should be forced to watch a Dove commercial.”
And by the way? I don’t consider myself beautiful, and I don’t see a problem with that, so fuck right off, Dove. But I am a middle-age American woman who mostly thinks I’m cute, sometimes pretty, so I do think I’m a goddamn miracle.
Besides, “beautiful” doesn’t even crack the top 100 on my list of issues. When I think about my last pseudo-breakup, my appearance isn’t what keeps my brain spiraling. He once got hard while we were taking a walk because I made a JOKE about wearing high heels during sex — it’s easy enough to believe he found me attractive. So can we focus on this weird haze I get into where I think I’m not smart or interesting enough to keep a dude around AFTER we have sex, even as a friend? That seems to be the dominating self-esteem weirdness here.
Friend 1: “You know it was a productive therapy session when you immediately get cheese fries afterwards.”
Friend 2: “Nice. I’m going tonight as well.”
Me: “Ha, I’m going tomorrow.”
Friend 1: “Awwwww…we’re on the same therapy cycle.”
Friend 2: “That feels more important than syncing our periods.”