I enjoy being a female, really I do. There’s something to be said about the fact that tits and an ass can get you so far in life, with so little work. Other times, though, I’m not so excited about it.
Lately, I’ve been having a bit of what could be called a personal disagreement with God lately over this whole menstruation, birthing, propagating the species matter. Yes, I understand that these are cycles that every woman must more or less undergo equally, but you would think that something so crucial to the success of the human race would be a little more comfortable, or at least a little more tolerable.
Instead, once a month, we girls get bitchy. We rue the day you hired us because it means we have to get out of bed, we hate the sunlight, loud noises and your face. Instead once a month we consider if we really do want to have kids or if it wouldn’t be better just to cut the whole thing out of us.
And so, we continue bleeding profusely, writhing in pain and bloating to three times our size. We get tired, cranky, bitchy, hungry, and have to go to the bathroom ten million times a day. But it isn’t enough. Oh no no. The entire sadistic cycle actually leads up to an act that taken out of context comes disturbingly close to torture.
The break you get from period, that wonderful little thing called pregnancy is pretty much as rewarding as liver cancer. Nine months of getting bigger and bigger, leaking nipples, swollen ankles, and sore backs, tearing vaginas, shitting in front of your close ones. Ah, the joys of childbirth.
It all kind of makes you wonder how come there are so many people in the world in the first place.
So, when you think of complaining to me about how your neck hurts because you slept wrong, telling me that your leg hurts, because you went running, or bitching about the bruise you got running into a table, don’t. Instead, think of how after a lifetime of bleeding once I month I get to look forward to pushing a bowling ball out of a button hole, and bow down to my Uterus, because you owe it your future.
