Ladies and Gentleman, my uterus has taken over. It has complete control of my body. Make no sudden movements or it will cut you, man, it will pop a cap in your ass.
Or cramp up. Which is way worse, let me tell you.
I’m all hormonal. I predicted this last week when I was asking stupid girly questions of my husband, asking him why he loved me and such. I want to eat a bunch of Oreos rolled in margarita salt. I want to yell ‘Fucker!’ while laughing hysterically.
Being a girl is hard sometimes.
Some guy called me ‘Heather’ yesterday. I was chatting with Yorick at the time, so I asked him ‘Do I sound like a Heather?’ without explaining why I was asking. He replied ‘From that movie? Yeah sometimes.’
Oh my god. He thinks I’m a Heather! I always thought I was a Veronica or at very least a Betty Finn. It’s so very.
‘I love my dead gay son.’
‘Fuck me gently with a chainsaw.’
He then later clarified that I sound like a Heather when I talk about the shopping. I explained that I can’t help it, I’m a girl.
That’s a very handy excuse sometimes.
I’ve got this condition.
My uterus is one cranky beyotch, let me tell you.
I want to put on thermal socks and watch ‘Days of Our Lives’ while eating chocolate frosting directly from the can. With pretzels. I want to cry because I want to be Kristen Alphonso or at least have her eyebrows. I want the old Jack to come back, not Jack #482. And the old Jennifer, Melissa Reeves. I want Marlena to actually die and not just pretend to die as she has no less than four times in the past. She annoys me. She’s too self-righteous.
Bit of trivia: Advil Liqui-Gels do not fit inside your average Pez Dispenser.
Not that I tried or anything. I’m just saying.
I tried on my Rock Star clothing for Esteban last night. I watched the horror on his face when I revealed not one pair of faux leather pants but two, TWO pairs of faux leather pants.
All he could say was ‘Why did you buy leather pants? Why?’
I have this condition, you see’
‘They’re cute. Don’t you think they’re cute?’
‘You look like SuperFly.’
‘Who’s Superfly?’
‘He’s like Shaft.’
‘At least I don’t look like Huggy Bear from Starsky & Hutch.’
‘I see a resemblance.’
‘My next husband will like me in pleather pants.’
‘Yes, I know, baby.’
‘I look cute.’
‘Yes you always look very cute, sweetie.’
He didn’t like the blue eyelash sweater either. I didn’t have the heart to show him the glittery trailer trash black velvet vamp shirt. My uterus would have demanded that I run crying out of the room. At least I’m one step ahead of its crazy hormonal terrorism.
Perhaps Esteban’s next wife won’t be insane.
My ovaries could really go for a blue raspberry slushie right now.
My god, it’s not enough that they’ve taken a hostage’ now they’re making demands. Next thing, they’ll want 67 copies of Moby Dick so they can plead insanity when brought to trial.
I’m so not a Heather. I may like to shop and I may be going to hell, but I am NOT a Heather.
Right?
Y’all better agree with me or my uterus will take you out, man. It’s not joking either.
