Hey girls, have you ever had that feeling, that warm, fuzzy feeling deep in the pit of your heart, when you have looked into the smiling face of some man and realised that this is The One, this is the real thing, the thing they sing about and write sonnets to, the thing that is our reason for existing?
Have you ever glimpsed this man creature and wondered how you ever lived without him? Cried and ached because you couldn't? Hung around like a love sick puppy?
Have you done all this for a crazed and demented 2 days then woke up on the third morning with rat's gnawing at your gut and nipples that feel like they have had a run in with the cheese grater and realised that, yes, it's that time of month and the whole lurve thing has just been hormonal?
Aint periods a bitch?
Before I go any further, if the mention of menstruation is too salty for your delicate ears (or eyes) then stop right here. This is just going to get worse. Much worse.
See there are some women who talk about the beauty and wonder of being a fertile woman, a procreating Goddess, a fully functioning Earth Mother. These women tend to be ethereal, Stevie Nicks type creatures in white flowing gowns and crowns of daisies who squeeze out a few delicate drops of menstrual blood before going back to commune with the woodland animals gathering herbs for healing poultices.
Not me, no siree-bob. I'm like the mighty Mississippi, the Niagra Falls. I am an unstoppable force. The real reason I left Tasmania was because the government had such a penchant for hydro-electricity, damming any kind of natural flowing fluid. I was scared I was next on the list after the Gordon and the Franklin. Seriously, I had Greenies camping out in my bush, chaining themselves to...
But that's more about me that you ever wanted to know right? Let's just say this: those of us with high IQs can join Mensa. Well the way I bleed, I could join Menstra. S
ee dudes don't understand. They don't know that moment of horror when you are in mid-mense and you pop in to visit a dear friend. Your bosum buddy takes you into the lounge and invites you to make yourself at home on their brand new snow-white sofa. Yeah, you know the drill. You sit with your legs crossed, running to the bathroom to change your tampon every five minutes. Cos there no book of ettiquette ever advices you how to tackle the 'I just perioded on your furniture' situation. I mean, you could punch yourself in the nose and pretend you had a nose bleed or contort yourself so you slop your coffee on the exact spot of the stain. Or maybe just swathe yourself like an Eyptian Mummy to prevent any chance of accidents.
And you know why dudes don't understand? You wanna know why? It's because while OUR unfertilised reproductive fluids are meant to be icky and disgusting... hidden away and not talked about... they think we love their emissions. We love them so much we want to bathe in them, not just swallow up gulp them down, rub them all over our faces and breasts and bellies. Think about it, how many web sites do you see devoted to the male enjoyment of female emissions (okay, there probably are some and you don't need to send me the links, but they would be minisucle in comparison).
So what's the point of this rant? I dunno, don't ask me, I don't want to talk about it and why the fuck do you wanna know anyway. Go away, I'm on my rags.