You who is a curse and a blessing.
You who is a disruption to my life and my mood for the duration of your stay.
I hate that I have to live with your existence.
I’ve had to put up with you since I was 12, and I have to put up with you until I’m 50. If I’m lucky enough to hit menopause that early. Suffice to say, I can be in a committed relationship, after all.
I hate that you make me want to cry at the smallest things when normally, I wouldn’t even bat an eyelash when someone is behaving like a real cu– bitch.
I hate that I get snippy or have the wildest urge to hit anyone who does the most innocent thing, like brush past me or look at me for any longer than two seconds.
I hate the pain that comes along with you, and I hate that I’m constantly on the verge of overdosing on painkillers just so I can suppress and control all that agony.
I hate that irritating and painful pimple right on my cheek, forehead or chin associated with your arrival.
I hate that for 5 days a month, I feel icky and uncomfortable in my own skin, at war with my own body.
I hate that you’re never on time, as much as I cheat myself that you’re following my program. You can be days early, weeks late, getting women into a panic on whether they’ve screwed something up.
I love it when you skip a month from giving me a visit.
I hate that you’re so high maintenance, and requiring a whole lot of expenses to make sure that you have a comfortable stay.
Whether broke or not, I hate that I have to stock up on tampons and pads, which don’t grow on trees, ripe for the picking.
I hate that I have to carry them everywhere with me just in case of an emergency, whether for my sake or a friend’s sake.
I hate the way you make me feel self-conscious and out-of-sorts in my own frakking body.
I hate that I feel like a complete doorknob when you’re around, useless and bedridden.
I hate that my brain cells seem to be eroded and I can’t think reasonably or creatively.
I hate that my appetite gets all out of whack. I hate all those cravings which can be so demanding that I feel like a complete glutton.
I hate that you’re a part of my life despite me not wanting any children.
Other than the incredible hatred I have for you, menstruation, you are rather…puzzling.
I don’t understand how you’re able to make a group of women in a house, office or school be synchronous with their cycle. It’s either genius or disturbing that we are able to use each other as calendars for when our own cycles begin.
A curse, blessing, mystery, disturbance, and Christ, I hate you.