My Bloody Valentine
So after a few hours of tossing and turning and wondering if I should start carrying a jar around with me in case my uterus fell out... I got up, made coffee in between dramatic little whimpers and artfully clutching the counter in the midst of a bad cramp and made a solemn vow to myself that I would get a hysterectomy this year if I had to kidnap a doctor and make him do it on my kitchen table with a butcher knife. And by doctor I don’t mean Kevorkian or a veterinarian. I drink my coffee and think I should just go ahead and smoke a bowl and listen to Duran Duran and maybe cry a little. Maybe cry and eat half a dozen Krispy Kreme glazed and the other half glazed chocolate frosted. I can admit it... my period makes me crazy and that crazy is contagious. I mean people have been known to lose their minds around me while I am on the rag. Lose their minds and suggest anal for the cramps. Well that and wishing they could bring back the custom of making ragging women go live in huts on the edge of the woods until the unclean spirit is gone.
I wish I was one of those stoic New England type women that can bear their periods cheerfully and with a smile and not worry about protection while they ski and skydive and ride horses. You know the ones... they never go home early from work if they start their periods. They always dressed out for gym class and never told the coach they had ‘female troubles’ during calisthenics and jumping jacks were prohibited. Never skipped History to go lay down in the nurses office and flirt with the student teachers. In addition to admitting it makes me crazy, I can also admit to certain occasions of me taking full advantage of being menstrually challenged.
It isn’t all in my head though and I don’t care what some people say. It has effects on some women (especially southern ones) and it certainly affects me in strange ways. Hormones are dangerous. I have been known to promise sexual favors in return for a late night drive to the Krispy Kreme. To tear up and beg for tummy rubs and hold the remote control hostage. I have made ex’s buy me tampons and pads and Midol and Haagen Dazs and fried chicken and tabloids. I want my ass rubbed and my boobs massaged and chocolate covered cherries and a rag for my forehead. I will cry if I don’t get my way and maybe even throw the spork from my Kentucky Fried mashed potatoes at you without licking the gravy off first. I will want to talk about the “relationship” and watch something on Lifetime or some Italian art fag movie about castrati opera singers and I will want you to watch it with me. I will sob uncontrollably if you make a comment about someone needing to shoot me or to smother me, then I will threaten to shave my head with a butter knife if you don’t shut up and leave me alone FOREVAH AND EVAH!!!!! And I really mean it this time…
Most of my ex’s got really good at handling me during my ‘three strange days”. They knew more about my cycle than I did. Some would even mark it on the calendar in red and hide all the Laura Nyro and Tori Amos records. Turn stark white and run like hell if I asked where in goddamn hell my gee dee Nancy Sinatra vinyl was. They learned to just pass the tissue if an old episode of the Walton’s came on and that a garlic necklace isn’t going to help them. Shockingly enough my periodic lunacy never became a deal breaker. I don’t know why that is, I am a handful during my period… I know this. I also know I am a handful most of the time. The message board accusations about me being high strung and temperamental and difficult have some basis in real life truth. I don’t apologize for that anymore. I like to think that the rest of the month is worth the hell and torment of me in the throes of some hormonally induced hysteria but I know it probably isn’t. I am pretty sure it is that one day a month I will suck dick for doughnuts.
In Absinthe Veritas,
Tallulah Crankhead
