bystander intervention af

New York in summer, with its millions of people crammed together like sweaty sardines in an ancient, oily tin, is a veritable wonderland of idiosyncrasies, outbursts and xenophobia. On the other hand, it occasionally provides opportunities to spot moments where one can step in and make this city a little less of an angry, festering butthole. I tend to walk away from these sorts of occasions both encouraged and disturbed. For example:

Yesterday I was walking to the train from Central Park (yep, my ass was in Manhattan on a weekend. I feel like I deserve a freaking award), through the remnants of the Bastille Day celebrations on 60th Street (Now that I think of it, I was given a free pastry just for walking by a dude that was breaking down his tent, so I guess I did get a reward for being in Manhattan after all) and I saw these two dudes smoking a cigarette and staring across the street, chuckling. I turned and saw a woman about my age stumbling with really tall shoes, sort of aimlessly, and I learned from ONE ACT that to not be a total piece of shit, you need to take care of other women, even if it means seeming nosy. Also, fuck those dudes. So I stopped and leaned against a wall to watch her and see if she needed help, and she crossed the street to stand next to me, which is a weird thing to do in New York. It scared me because it made me think something happened to her. She seemed emotionally fine, but she was so drunk or high that she couldn’t meet my eye. Long story short, I got her into a cab, but like, fuck whoever left her alone, and what if something did happen to her? I wanted to ask, but I also didn’t want to pry.

Today, a lesbian couple got on the train and sat across from me, and this older dude sitting nearby started complaining loudly to these two poor Asian tourists that same sex relationships are disgusting and two women can’t make a baby (joke’s on you, dude – that technology is almost here) and two men can’t make a baby and all this garbage. Once I realized what he was yelling about (I had headphones in at first) I asked him to stop yelling hateful language. He was obviously a massive dick about it, but fuck if I’m gonna let this lesbian couple sit here being shouted about while no one even tries to defend them, and plus I grew up with same sex parents. It’s hard to know what to do in these situations, especially if the person being shitty is also a member of a marginalized community, which in this situation was the case.  If it’s a ostensibly cis-het white dude, I will open up a can, but when it’s not, it’s so much more complicated.

Man, hat was a downer. I did have a post all ready when I had my period during the 4th of July, but was too lazy to finish it – here’s how it started:

Last weekend I was lounging in my white underwear and blue shorts and my vagina was like, “Bitch it’s 4th of July. Imma make your ass patriotic as hell right now,” and swooped in to give me the color scheme I needed to make this holiday memorable.

You have to give it to my vagina for spotting an opportunity and seizing it. Get it?? Eh? Spotting? Ugh h8 myself. Joke’s on her, though, because blood stains brown. Anyhow, my underwear is ruined.

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Hopefully that punderful anecdote will make it worth reading this whole post. But seriously, y’all, we have got to take care of each other.

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My period came early again

Is this my life now? My period comes hella early like my mom leaving to go to the airport only to wait primly at the gate for several hours while furtively pounding watered-down airport bar G&Ts.

Hey cis dudes, can I give you a pro tip? If a woman tells you her period came early, the appropriate thing to say in response is not, “Better early than late!” Because you know what’s better than an early or late period? No period at all, which is what you get to experience all the time.

Just in case any of y’all psychos did the math on this one, I’m actually several days into my period, because the first few days I was too dejected to sit here and write about it. The only words that came to mind were “I’m on my period and fuck you, bye.”

I finally finished reading Lord of the Rings, which I was pretty excited to be done with, but then once it was over I was kind of bummed out and missed reading it. Stockholm Syndrome, basically. God I’m so boring.

My period came early and I am not here for any of y’all’s bullshit

I mean, at least it’s not the same day as Trump’s inauguration this time. But it is the same day as Trump being president, because that’s every day.

I’m sure y’all were wondering with bated breath, When will Leah post about her period again? It’s been an awfully long time. Is she pregnant? Let’s hope so, because then she and Beyoncé will have babies in the same year. But also, let’s hope not, because Trump is the president and also that Pepsi commercial with Kylie or Kendall or Kookie whatever the fuck exists now.

The reality is, I forgot. Because I was busy bleeding out of my vagina. Sue me.

This time, however, I did not forget. Because within the series of moments during which I discovered that my period came early, I was treated to a series of almost-as-exciting discoveries outside of my body.

I was feeling like I wanted some privacy (there must’ve been an instinct deep inside of me that knew my vagina was about to fuck me up) so I went straight to the single capacity bathrooms at work – AKA pooping bathrooms – and all were occupied but two. I went into the first one, and the seat was straight-up COVERED in pee. It was like a fucking Jackson Pollock painting, except instead of a paint brush that an artist purposefully draped over a canvas that no one sits on, it was a stupid fucking penis attached to a stupid fucking man.

I then proceeded into the other bathroom, and, lo and be-fucking-hold, the seat was up, y’all! What in the goddamn ass is going on? I work in a building with literally the smartest computer engineers in the country, who make hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars a year. These people have wives. These people have mothers. And I’m even more horrified to say that there are male coworkers of mine who think it’s fine to leave the seat up in a multi-sex/gender bathroom.

Every time a dude sits on a toilet seat covered in another dude’s piss, somewhere in the world a dog adopts a bunch of orphaned kittens.

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Anyway, after putting down the GOT-DAMNED seat that some piece of shit decided to leave up for my ass to take care of, I had to shove a piece of cylindrical cotton up my hoo ha and proceed back to my desk for several hours of bending double in pain, and I just don’t feel like being cool with dudes being garbage right now!

I’m on my period, Grand Canyon edition

If the universe didn’t want me to make a bunch of puns about the Grand Canyon and my period, it wouldn’t have brought my period while I was in Arizona to visit the Grand Canyon.

Unfortunately I didn’t have time to write this while I was actually there because I was too busy *~hiking~* and *~clutching my bloated tummy~* so I may be incapable of producing inspiring puns, particularly because I’m back in New York and there’s nothing red or arid or cavernous about this place. Also, I haven’t written here in ages so I feel a little out of practice.

Bae and I felt that, given the fart-filled balloon we’ve elected as president, we ought to go out and support our national parks while we still have the chance. Some day I’ll be able to tell my grandchildren that I shed my uterine lining while hiking the Grand Canyon. They’ll be filled with awe, like a pad bursting with blue fluid. Or they won’t even know what I’m talking about, because the Grand Canyon will have been filled with concrete to build a Google campus #justkiddinggoogle #idneverinsultyougoogle #iloveyougoogle

By the way, y’all, a body was airlifted out of the canyon the day before we came. I literally experience moments of fear walking down a hallway that I will just fall on my face spontaneously, and I somehow endured the Grand Canyon after finding out that someone had just fallen to their death. Unsurprisingly, most of the people who die in the canyon are men.

All right, that’s enough rambling.

Bachelor of farts

Y’all, I cannot believe the sounds my abdomen is emitting right now. It’s like all of the world’s farts are inside of me right now. And it’s bullshit, too, because I have this bag of dried fruit that I was dying to demolish this morning, and I restrained myself to one prune and one fig. Just so I wouldn’t be filling the entire Google office with my farts. And what do I get for my incredible feat of self-sacrifice? The sounds of the Swamp Creature projecting with surprising brawn from my body.

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Obviously I’m just going to eat the whole bag now, because what was the point of my straight up martyrdom earlier today??

Have y’all watched Joe’s Violin yet? If you’re looking to hardcore ugly cry, that’s the one for you. It’s only like twenty minutes long and you can watch it on the New Yorker for free.

I’m on My Period: I Forgot to Bring Tampons on My Trip Edition

Hello friends. It’s that time you look forward to each month, when I entreat you to the gory details of my Aunt Flo, or what I like to call “the shedding of my uterine lining” because it’s fucking 2017 and I don’t need to use a euphemism for that. Thank you very much.

I’m on my way back from said trip on the Chinatown bus, very much enjoying the man next to me melting into my seat. Is it, like, not in men’s range of emotion to pull in their excess body parts? I feel like I’m surrounded by goddamn amoebas. Get it the fuck together, men.

Am I feeling bitter, you ask? How could you tell? When I was on birth control I didn’t have a period, and now my cramps are back to being so bad that I get both sweaty and chilly like I have a fever, except I still have to go work and be surrounded by mediocre men while I do their jobs. LOL omg so fun.

At least I didn’t start my period while I was on the Chinatown bus. I can feel grateful to fake Jesus for that.

Now this dude is passed the fuck out. He’s doing that sleep apnea thing where you’re like, are you dead? And then they gasp for air and you’re like, oh I guess you’re fine. Meanwhile, I’m just trying to watch this video of a chimpanzee making a hammock and the goddamn internet is too slow. WOE IS ME!!

SoulCycle

Y’all are not gonna motherfucking believe this, but I went to SoulCycle today. They’re running a promotion for those of us graced by the light of Google, and I got to enjoy being shouted at in the dark for forty-five minutes for free, if you can believe it.

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Ok so first of all, the World’s Tightest Ass occupied the bike in front of me, emblazoned with the Lululemon logo (to be fair, I was wearing Lululemon leggings too, but only because I snatched them out of the Google donation bin when no one was watching like a fucking ogre) and topped by a torso wearing a SoulCycle shirt. Like, have you ever looked in the mirror? I mean, obviously you look in the mirror, like if I looked like you I would have a mirror surgically installed on my body to face myself at all times. But like…you wearing that shirt is like an Abercrombie sweat shop worker buying an Abercrombie shirt and wearing it to work at the sweat shop, except for the sweat shop pays them instead of them paying it.

Can you imagine a sweat shop worker somehow stumbling into a SoulCycle class? You are paying someone to scream at you in a room that smells and feels like a teenager’s Dutch oven while you work your ass off and sweat balls. In fact, I bet that in five years we’ll find out that SoulCycle has actually been gathering kinetic energy from all of us idiots and selling it to Con Ed for a sweet profit. This is some Black Mirror shit if I’ve ever seen it.

Halfway through the class I felt like I was gonna poop my pants, because it was so fucking hot in the room. If there’s something I can be proud of in my life, it’s that I’ve made it this far without pooping my pants. I kept pedaling, weighing my options. Poop my pants, or get up in front of this entire room of active wear models and TV movie CEOs and Disney Princesses and leave the room to cool off. I ended up risking the former to avoid the latter. This is the kind of environment I chose to be in for forty-five minutes today. This is why people end up as sister wives, y’all!

I really, truly, honestly have no interest in looking like that. It would make the descent into flabby old age that much steeper. Plus, I fucking love cake. The only reason I work out is so that I can write in my blog and eat cookie butter straight out of the jar.

Anyway, I have two more free classes, and I’m definitely going to go to them.