OK, menfolk… this is your one and only warning. GO! Get out…. Ski-daddle! No offense. I honestly love all my readers but trust me on this one, fellas… this is not the post for you. What? Quit looking at my page all confused like that… just go! It’s for your own good! Geez…
Alright… hopefully they’re all gone and if not… it’s their own damned fault.
There is one common enemy that most females can freely complain to one another about. One monthly occurrence that makes us turn from normal, mild-mannered ladies…. into Beasts. I’m not even going to attempt to sugar-coat it. Fucken Beasts!
I think it should be pretty easy to guess what it is that I’m alluding to… it’s our mother-f’ing periods. I feel like there should be a big “DUN-DUN-DUUUUUUN” following the reading of that last sentence, so please add the ”DUN-DUN-DUUUUUUN” yourself…. and make sure you’re all dramatic about it, when you read it. That last “DUUUUUUUN” could even wobble a little, if you’d like. So, yeah… Our mother f’ing periods. They suck. For reals…. and I don’t care how old you are or how many years you’ve been dealing with this annoyance… It’s always going to suck. It’s never just going to be like “Oh, my mother f’ing period. How pleasant.”
Since I am in my mid-thirties, I think it’s safe to say that I’ve been dealing with my very own mother f’ing period for about 2 decades. Has it gotten any better? Hell to the NO. 2 decades in and I swear that shit is getting worse. Wtf, mother f’ing period…. really? You can’t just freaking chill out and not suck????
In the 7 days proceeding the arrival of the mother f’ing period, my brain is taken hostage by evil. Pure evil… not that diluted kind-of evil shit. I hate everyone and everything… kittens, bubble baths, rainbows, the smell of rubbing alcohol… all of it…. I hate it all! Oh, Hubs? Mother f’ing period has a special kind of hate, reserved just for him. A hate that at times, is so intense… I have considered creating a padded room, to lock myself into. The week proceeding my mother f’ing period can also be referred to as “Death-to-Hubs week” It’s like shark week… only live… and without the sharks. Hubs can totally walk the straight and narrow…. gift me with daily McDonald’s coffees, allow me to listen to whatever music I want in the car and tell me I’m pretty…. and I will still hate him. Because there was too much ice in the coffee, he failed to sing along properly to Rapper’s Delight and well…. I don’t feel pretty. Not even a little bit.
Another low-point of our mother f’ing period? How about the fact that no matter how many decades we are blessed with these damned things… we will always experience “the accident” Let’s see…. I’ve faithfully dealt with my mother f’ing period for about 20 years (give or take 36 months of pregnancy) You would think that after 1,428 days of hanging out with that mother f’er, I would know when to take care of business. But, I don’t… and that’s dumb! I’m not sure if it’s my fault of the mother f’ing periods fault… but I always try to push it. The damned walk all the way to the bathroom is just too far… it can wait another 20 minutes… or 2 hours…. and then whooosh. Ladies. Don’t pretend that you’re not familiar with the whooooosh. You’re sitting/laying/standing/walking/line dancing there… minding your own business. All of a sudden your mother f’ing period begins to feel neglected. You haven’t paid attention to her in a while. So it happens. The whooooosh…. and there’s absolutely no denying the whoooosh. All you can do is attempt to make your way to the bathroom, thanking Jesus that you are a real sized woman whose inner thighs actually touch, creating a barricade, while praying that there isn’t a globe sized stain on your hind end. After you have righted your wrong, and all is right and fresh with the world again… you will go to wash your hands and your mother f’ing period will sucker-punch you with THE most intense cramp ever, right in your side. The cramp will only last a moment… but, it’s a subtle reminder of who’s actually in charge around here.
Your mother f’ing period.