Hysteria

What I love about my uterus is that it wants to get out and see the world. I know this because it is currently trying to dig its way out of my body with a spoon. Or, at least, that's what it feels like. It's neat. Really.

And all the great things about being a woman aside--you know, childbirth, ob-gyn exams--today there is nothing I would love more than to turn in my Woman Card and get a FULL FUCKING REFUND RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!!! Because this is unbelievable. Four Bayer and three Advil later, and I am still practically doubling over as I write this. I spent fifteen minutes on my kitchen floor this morning, just lying there, trying to find relief on the cool linoleum. (I did not find the respite I was seeking. Though I did find a refrigerator magnet and two quarters. But, any man who thinks that that is somewhere close to a fair trade, should come to 26th Street and 6th Avenue immediately, so that I can punch you in the throat as hard as I can, which--you should know--is really fucking hard since I have no feeling in my hands because I'm so hyped-up on Bayer and Advil.)

All I know, is that my future children better be fucking rock star, cancer-curing, Olympic athlete, mother-spoiling, beauty-pageant winning, Green-Beret geniuses. Because that's the only way this kind of pain could ever be worth it.

And even then, one false move--one overly whiny, two-syllabled "Mo-om"--and they are in a basket, headed down the river, Moses-style.

That is all.