*Warning: Sensitive Male readers do NOT read further.
Right. So once a month, or rather, every 28 days, to be precise, dammit, I turn into an evil bitch. Well. More of an evil bitch then (pedantic little fuckers.) Once a month, as a blessed member of the gender wo-man, I bleed. A lot. And painfully. But before I bleed, I get hormonal. Unpredictably, inescapably, uncontrollably hormonal. I am literally at the mercy of the rampaging little bastards. I have no sense of humour. I cry. Or bite people’s heads off. Or cry. And I have absolutely no patience whatsoever. None. At all. Capische?
Usually, I consider myself a fairly rational woman (no oxymoron jokes, morons). Under normal circumstances. Direct. Able to realize that my emotions in any given situation actually have no bearing on the situation itself. Able to dissect a moment for its pure intention, not just what may, might, could, should have been meant by the parties involved.
But not then. When I’m on the rag. Under the curse. Unclean. Getting a visit from the Van Rooiens. Nooo. Then I’m all pathetic over analyzing and moody recalcitrance.
And then, as mentioned, I bleed. Joy. Like a reward for all the rollercoastering. And some internal, clawed beast, rakes his (definitely his) scabrous and ragged claws through my womb. Doubling me up with cramps. Infecting me with teeth-gritting headaches. And generally making me feel like I’m being beaten up from the inside. Pain, people. Genuine, back crackin’ pain. Not just light discomfort, cherubs and sausage pots. Pain. And, for the sake of any delicate man-eyes, who didn’t heed the warning, I won’t even go into the indignities of tampons. How to use them, store them, transport them and dispose of them, in a world which is mostly disinclined to make any of this easy.
All of which I must do with stoic determinism. Or else, some wise crackin’, death wish desperado might ask sneeringly “that time of the month, huh?” Wrong fukin’ time of the month to ask that question, Romeo. Pass me the steak knives.