Hey, Netflix — how’s about you slow your goddamn roll here?
A Facebook friend posted about how silly she was for being eager to get her period when she was around 11, and her male friend said, “Yeah, for men it’s shaving — when we were kids, we couldn’t wait to grow facial hair, but it’s such a hassle.”
Oh. Oh, honey…
Putting aside the non-visible symptoms of menstruation — bloating, cramps, irritability, etc…
What, pray, happens if you don’t shave for a week? You get fuzzier, no? Perhaps you get a little squirrely, maybe you need a trim?
But I’m gonna GUESS that if you just ignore that “hassle” for a week, and take no action whatsoever, you can probably still be seen in public.
Lemme just TRY to ignore my period for a week, to take no action, and go to work. Or on a date. Grocery shopping. The gym. Does that sound like a LITTLE more of a “hassle?”
Your wanton erections are probably a closer comparison. Or maybe if once a week your dick just leaked ejaculate for 5-10 days straight? Or, you know, if it just…bled?
Run along, sir. You’re needed at the Faulty Metaphor Factory.
I ran into a former coworker the other day and added him on Facebook, so I guess now Facebook is all, “Hey, we recognize that professional circle! Might you also want to be friends with That Guy?”
No, Facebook. I’ve told you that before. Twice, I believe. But thanks, I felt like feeling weird today. (I have no idea what the feeling is. Not angry, just…weird. Nothing will come of analyzing that NOW, though, so there’s no point — just don’t tell my therapist I said that.)
Ah, yes. A key decision in any “relationship” — do I end it now while I’m pretty sure I can handle it, or let it ride until it crashes and burns in the most damaging possible way?
Pfft. JK, it’s not actually a question. Y’all know I’ll suffer for a good story — let’s dance, Feelings!
Kidding. The beauty of having played the He’s Just Not That Into You home game for 2 years a while back is that I can see it easily now. Plus ending the 10-year relationship right before THAT… I mean, it can’t hurt TOO much if this one ends. “We’re done? Oh, OK, cool. I’ll have more time to clean.”
But it turns out the “slut shame” doesn’t come from the sex. It comes from sex being all there is — from me not being feelings-worthy for whatever reason, from being kept around solely for my ability to wet a dick.
I’m not built for that. I don’t need Edward Lewis, but I damn sure ain’t settlin’ for Stuckey.
I acknowledge the possibility that I’m hormonal and misinterpreting, but I think I’m right. If I can’t tell that you, um, like me, or want to spend time with me, that is legit insane-making for my membranes.
I deleted (not blocked) his number, and, with it, my ability to text him anything belligerent and cunty. He’s still free to contact me, though, so we’ll see what happens.
Hm… Though I guess I probably should’ve seen what happened before I spent the weekend getting myself over this based on these assumptions… Oops. Ah, well. Call it preventive care.