So I ended up having an “endometrial biopsy” this morning. I’ll spare you the details, but my exact words during the procedure were, “Um, hey, so…this doesn’t HURT-hurt, but I would SUPER love it to be over soon.”
And then it HURT-hurt, just in a pressure-y, menstrual-cramp-y way, resulting in fun bonus bleeding, exhaustion, and quease.
Human bodies are so disgusting.
In happier news, I’ll get my period this weekend, but that’ll be the last one, because fuck you, Nature, I have a pill now. 🖕🏼
George Carlin had a bit about the potency of farts — eg, “A fart that could eat the stitching out of Levi’s,” or “A fart that could end a marriage.”
And even though I don’t make fart jokes because I AM A LADY, my mind wandered to Carlin today, high fived that bit, and ended up here…
The kind of cramps where you Google a diagram of the human body so you know for sure which organs are absolutely going to fall out of your body at some point today.
The kind of cramps where you’ve never seen the movie Alien, but you just know something similar is happening in your abdomen.
The kind of cramps where you sing along with that country song about shootin’ your husband and really mean it, even though you’re single, because you just know, somewhere, somehow, a man is responsible for this. (JK, men — please come have sex with me in 3-4 days.)
The kind of cramps where you apologize to your liver in advance, because today’s definitely an Advil with a Bayer chaser kinda day. With Aleve sprinkles.
The kind of cramps where you’re like, “Fuck ME, did I eat knives that I forgot about?!”
The kind of cramps where “Fuck YOU, this chocolate muffin I’m eating for dinner is medicinal.”
Here lies Smug Singleton: She died of cramps, which is totally a thing that can happen.
Don’t send flowers, flowers are bullshit. You spend that money on fried cheese and whiskey. That’s what she would’ve wanted. (YES, fried cheese and whiskey at 10 a.m. Christ almighty, do you want to honor her or not?)
Rest in petty, Smug.
One of the reasons I don’t consider myself an atheist is that I get the kind of menstrual cramps that make me see Jesus.
And when I see Jesus, I stay home. Because you never know, He might need me to do things. Maybe I’m an emissary. That’d be sweet — “I’m Jesus, get me a muffin!” Who knows? Mysterious ways and all. I should be prepared.
Right now it seems He just wants me to drink coffee in bed. I always knew Jesus was cool.
#MentalHealthDay
I follow yoga sites on Facebook, because I want to be more relaxed, even if I can’t tell you the last time I unclenched enough to attend a yoga class. (This is probably why I NEED yoga, but my idiocy isn’t the point here.)
One of the sites just posted an article on yoga poses to ease menstrual cramps, and some bitch-ass bitch tagged her friend in the comments. As if to say, “Heather, you crampy whore, check this out! Even though I could easily send you this article privately, I’m going to tag you instead so all your friends and colleagues know what a whiny c-word you are when you’re on the rag! RAG TAG!”
Everyone knows there are only two cures for cramps: drugs and food. Fuck yoga. Please send Aleve and fried cheese.
I got your namaste right here. *brandishing cookie*
Smug Singleton 