I’m having one of those ‘Three Estrogen Martinis’ kind of days.
This completely explains the migraine last week. This completely explains my irrational crankypants attitude. This explains the new zit that has erupted upon my chin.
This does not explain the auxiliary zit that has sprouted up next to the first zit. Perhaps it is the first runner up’ should the first zit be unable to perform its duties, the second zit would step in for complete and total uglification of my face.
Yes. I just totally made that word up.
And the cramping. Have I mentioned the cramping? It is days like this that I really hate being a girl. I mean, girlness is really grand. We get to wear lots of diamonds, get free samples of makeup at Dayton’s, and be exempted from manual labor for the simple reason that we’re an innie instead of an outtie. But we’re also the first person voted off the island, have actual humans extracted from a hole that’s thisbig and are objectified in a decades worth of hair band videos.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Ewan McGregor is reason enough to like being a girl. Ewan likes girls. Thus, this is a good thing.
But the cramping and the zitting I could do without. I’m just saying. Oh, and control top pantyhose. Don’t like those either.
You know what else I don’t like? Feminine hygiene commercials which try to show how absorbent a pad is by dumping blue liquid into it, as though women spontaneously spew forth Windex every twenty eight days.
‘Oh, I have cramps but my how the toilet bowl is sparkly! And look’ no streaks!’
I mean, they already have to put so many euphemisms into the whole thing. Feminine protection’. What the heck is that? At risk of sounding like the former white trash princess that I aim to be, feminine protection should be pastel firearms or possibly a loaded checkbook, NOT a bleached hunk of paper product with dri-weave and WINGS. This misogynistic notion that we fragile flowers must be protected from ourselves is ridiculous. I need protection from idiots, not from a little menstruation.
To quote Esteban last night, ‘Good evening ladies and gentleman, this is your pilot. If you look out the right side of the plane, we’ve just passed the land of Reason, cruising at 4500 feet, we should be arriving at Irrationality well before our estimated arrival time. Keep your seatbelts on, as we’re bound to encounter some turbulence.’
Excuse me. If you need me, I’ll be out on the street corner, pan-handling for some freaking Ibuprofen, ‘k?
On a lighter note, I’ve got a Club Weetabix thing happening tonight, so maybe I’ll just load up on the Blind Russians and be done with it. I mean, I’ll still have cramps and a primary and secondary zit, but I likely won’t care.
So there.
