“Everything hurts and I’m dying.”

Last time my body was being weird with my menstrual cycle, my doctor told me to stop taking my birth control pill, let my body menstruate for a few days, and then go back to taking it as prescribed so it stops. That was maybe a year ago, and it worked. Cool.
Now my body is being weird again, so I did the same thing, and…Jesus Christ, now I remember why they prescribed the pill to make it stop. I really did not miss having a period.
Between this and the ballsack-y humidity in Philly, I MAY actually be dying. Every part of me feels puffy, and like it weighs 100 pounds. Everyone and everything is SO much more annoying. Getting out of bed this week has been like a goddamn Ironman. And there is just NOT. ENOUGH. SALT.
If I can’t make as much money as a man, can I least get a few days off for THIS horseshit?
Fuck you, Nature, seriously.

Human bodies are so disgusting.

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. 🖕🏼

Nature v. Nurture 

Every time I hold a baby around my relatives, someone invariably says something to the effect of, “You’re a natural.” So I can only assume a woman’s default demeanor when holding an infant is, “Scared shitless she’ll drop it, or that its head will fall off.”

It’s a baby, not a fucking shark. I’m cuddling a tiny, wriggly human who smells like toast and isn’t an asshole yet. Her default state is “snuggle.” It’s not difficult.

Besides, she has you people for family, so what sounds like me whispering soothing nothings into her ear is actually me singing her my therapist’s phone number like it’s a Sesame Street song, hoping that, similar to the alphabet, it’ll be on her mental auto-dial as she gets older.

Bitch Perfect

OK, logically — sciencely — I know menstruating has probably never killed anyone. 

But today it took two kinds of painkillers, three cups of coffee, the Pitch Perfect soundtrack, and a tablespoon of peanut butter eaten directly from the spoon to reassure me I won’t be Patient Zero. 

Eat a dick, Nature. 

Tent Poles and Outdoorgasms

New Lad is camping. In the rain. I have never been so happy to not be at an event to which I was invited.

And that’s how I know I made the right call — there are exactly two people I’d ever want to camp with in a dating sense, especially in the rain. I’m not a camping girl by nature (campy, yes, but not camping), but spending time with them is always so fun that they make me want to try things I wouldn’t do on my own. (Not to mention the thought of smooching under the stars at night while getting soaked by summer rain makes my knees weak. And I can’t even imagine how sexy I’d look trying to hush during tent sex.)

With New Lad, I think I’d have to go poke a bear with a stick just so we didn’t have to stare at each other trying to come up with things to talk about. (“How are you repeating stories already? I’ve only been with you for two weeks and we hardly ever talk. Go poke that bear with a stick and get a new story!”)

Plus, New Lad wouldn’t even go to a restaurant with me while it was raining. He’d check the weather every time we went out, as if meteorology is an actual science. I’d hate to see the pouting that ensues when weather screws up his Wilderness Girl vibe.