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. 🖕🏼
I’ve been so run down that I was a little worried about my blood donation appointment today. I know I CAN donate, but I was concerned about feeling even more depleted. So I Googled it, and dammit, Australian Red Cross — I can’t decide if I’m comforted or insulted by your assurance.
“Oh, because I’m a woman overrun with hormones, I must want snacks and a couch? How dare you stereotype me?!”
“You DO want snacks and a couch.”
“I have PMS, so I’m exhausted, and miserable, and I just want to be in bed, and the quantity of food I ate for ‘dinner’ last night actually verged on obscene.
“But I’m also short-tempered, and far less concerned about being nice. I’m being polite, but blunt, so — politely — fuck you right in the eye, Coworker, for replying to my request for shit I should already HAVE with what amounts to ‘go fetch!’ and a smiley. I don’t have the patience to sugar-coat shit today. Give it.
“I should always have this. I am drunk with power. And irritability. (And possibly some sort of angry dairy-based residue from eating all the cheese on earth yesterday.)”