Friday, May 27, 2016

here, hold my drink while I pee for the 19th time.

For my fellow uterus carriers out there, you can back me up on this, bleeding from your vagina fucking sucks. Not only do the 5-7 days of your period ruin your life, but the 3-4 days before and after aren’t magical either. The day or two before the red sea comes through I always wake up with one chin pimple. I know, I know. Poor fucking me with my one pimple. But I’m telling you, this pimple is a mother fucking demon from hell. It’s bigger than my 19 pound dog and it hurts and it’s angry and it stays with me for what feels like 5-7 years.

Also the awesomeness of feeling like you’re 6 months pregnant, even though you’re clearly not because your uterus is punishing you for NOT being pregnant, because you’re bloated as fuck. The bloating leads to needing to pee every 76 seconds. Suddenly I’m a 98 year old woman and can’t get drunk because I’m peeing faster than I can consume shots of alcohol.

I’m positive the only internal organ I have that punishes me for not procreating is my uterus. The rest of my body is like, “Fuck yeah! Dodged that bullet for another month!”. Some people (dudes) might say it’s cool that our boobs get slightly bigger. True, they do. However, they hurt so much I would quickly turn any dude into a eunuch who tries to touch them. Seriously, I will turn you into Theon Greyjoy so fucking fast no one will be able to save you. The rolling red sea comes with rolling rage blackouts so you better get your shit together people.

My favorite thing is the emotional turmoil my uterus causes me. Those commercials of the orphaned kittens, puppies, babies, rabbits, etc. with Sarah McLachlan singing sadly in the background make me LOSE MY FUCKING SHIT. Seriously. That’s not an animal being murdered. That’s me sobbing hysterically and clutching both my pets as they struggle to flee my smothering love. It’s not just orphans, it’s old people too. I saw a cute older couple walking down the street holding hands and I turned into a fucking psychopath. I tried to hug them while ugly crying and wiping snot off my face and probably barely escaped getting arrested. Non-bleeding me would never display this kind of emotion in public. Also I only ugly cry when the direwolves in Game of Thrones die. WHICH THEY ALWAYS FUCKING DO YOU GOD DAMN MASOCHISTS. Don’t even get me started on watching that show while I’m having my own personal red wedding. I can’t even live. Get a gun.

In summary, I am by all definitions a nightmare when I’m having my blessed menses. Generally I will avoid dudes and dates during this rough time for the safety of all parties. But then I realized, why? It’s not like dudes have ever saved me from their man periods. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve had to shove snacks down a dudes throat because he’s having a hangry meltdown and losing his shit in public. He may not have blood spewing from his vagina but he’s definitely bloated and being a real bitch. So I decided to see if when all the pretense is gone and a dude is getting the raw dog version of me, can he hang?

I met up with a dude from the internets for drinks. It went about as well as coming out of the closet at a church in the deep South holding hands with your black boyfriend.

First of all, the demon pimple was in its full glory. There literally is not enough concealer to pretend it’s not happening. So there’s that. Also my uterus was trying to exit my body through either my belly button or my asshole. At any moment she might succeed and make a break for it so I made sure I wore a skirt for an easy escape, ain’t nobody got time for ripped pants, and shoes that I could run in. I probably should have sent him an updated pictured with 13 less filters and with a more anatomically correct chin angle. Whatever.

I could tell he was instantly terrified as I immediately shoved 6 pain killers down my throat when the bartender put my drink in front of me. He looked concerned so I eased his worry by saying, “Don’t worry it’s for my contracting uterus. At least I’m not pregnant!”. I’m 50% sure he thought maybe I was pregnant and was trying to not be pregnant by consuming medication and alcohol. Maybe he did kind of get my vibe.

Even better than my glossed over expression while he talked about his “life” and whatever was that I had to pee every 3 minutes. Seriously. There is already too much happening near my bladder. She can’t be bothered holding in a little urine. She’s BUSY. The good thing was I could make him start his story again over and over since I couldn’t retain one fucking word he was saying at me. By the time I was on drink three I had gone full Terri Schaivo. I don’t even know if I told him I was calling my Uber. Did I call an Uber? Not important.

Needless to say, don’t expect any wedding announcements from me in 2019. Dude sent an obligatory, “Are you feeling better?” text to which I replied, “My uterus is trying to murder me.” It’s been radio silence since.

It sounds cheesy but I’m going to live the mantra, “If you can’t handle me at hungover then you don’t get to handle me at blacked out and horny.” In the future I will bring my angry uterus, granny panties, chin demon and muscle relaxers to all of my dates. Bye boy if you can’t handle it.

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