Summer

It is that time of year again when I am at greatest risk of accidentally having my slightly hairy thigh make contact with a far hairier, far less conscientious thigh due to the careless proliferation of body parts that characterizes men on the subway (and also, everywhere). I think it’s great that everyone is wearing shorts. I think body positivity is wonderful. But your thigh is just objectively gross, and keep it the fuck away from mine, k? As the age-old saying goes, “Your balls are not that big.”

It’s also the time of year when my comfort would be exponentially greater, given the sticky, sweltering heat that gathers all the streets of New York into a sweaty mass of metropolis that smells like an overturned garbage truck, if I could wear dresses every day, but when I still choose jeans and a t-shirt to avoid both the visibility of my crotch to everyone below me on any given subway stairway and unwanted attention from shitty dudes.

Sir, my ass is not there for you to ogle at like you’re watching fucking Chef’s Table. It is for me to sit on and for me to poop out of. Next time I see a dude staring creepily at a woman’s ass I’m going to get really close to his ear and whisper, “She poops out of that.” If he’s really being gross, I’ll be like, “She has explosive diarrhea out of that.”

See also:

  • Copious tourists, whose tanned arms emerging from singlets bearing the acronym “YOLO” inexplicably string across two poles on the subway, giving me the option of jabbing said singlet-bearing torso with my elbow or ducking under disgusting-ass, blond hair-covered armpits;
  • forgetting my office sweater at home and attempting to covertly shove my hands under my armpits like Mary Katherine Gallagher in order to warm them up in the Arctic office atmosphere;
  • Riding my bike to Coney Island, getting sand in my butt crack, riding my bike home from Coney Island with sand in my butt crack;
  • Chafing

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!

#pleasegoaway

The tourists have descended y’all. Like, who the motherfuck are all these people? It’s like yesterday New York was Trump’s inauguration, and today it’s Obama’s inauguration. I’m also grumpy as shit because I skipped several doses of medication last week by accident. Also, where is the f-u-c-k-i-n-g C train, ever??

I’m also moving at the end of the month and finding an apartment here is a fresh level of hell that I haven’t experienced yet, as previously I found rooms through other people. Now it’s just Bae and me, and we’ve seen like fifteen apartments in a week (I know I’m prone to hyperbole but that’s actually about how many we went to). Several of these were taken the day after we looked. It’s like we’re the male birds of paradise flashing our stupidly ostentatious feathers and the apartments are the dumpy-ass females. Except instead of obtaining the right to further our genetic information, we get the right to pay someone 2000 bucks to live in a bread box with a hot water heater in the kitchen and most likely a bunch of flattened rats covered with hardwood floors.

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No chill whatsoever

Fortunately there’s The Great British Bake Off, the Xanax of visual media. Good night!

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.

Go see a star war

I was unable to take my Lexapro twice over the weekend because my garbage can psychiatrist didn’t get back to me in time, so I’ve basically been a black hole with legs this entire week so far. Hairy legs, to boot. Good thing it was fucking gale-ing outside like the whole goddamn world was ending (which it is). Just the cherry on top of my shit sundae.

I’m only now starting to feel like I did prior to the weekend and missing those doses, and my gratitude for having access to this medication has been deepening throughout the day. Was that how heavy everything felt before I started the Lexapro? I think perhaps I’ve been feeling a combination of that, the inauguration, and my frustration at work.

Plus, everybody else is all fucked up, too. Since the inauguration I’m certain I’ve seen less patience and more desperation in the people around me. I didn’t think New York could become a more suspicious and self-serving place, but it feels as though it has done so. Or perhaps I’m projecting onto the people around me.

Either way, there are a million things going on and I’ve barely been writing at all. I thought of turning this into a once-a-week blog, but I’m not going to. I’m supposed to be writing every day as a rule, not an exception. I should be writing about that dude that lit a cigarette next to me on the subway and the mom and daughter tourist duo that ogled as everyone else on the train actively ignored him with nonchalant intensity, like only New Yorkers can do. Or my thoughts on the women’s march and those who attended, many of whom had never marched in a protest before. Or how I went to see Star Wars and the dickheads behind me chatted the whole time like they were raised in a fucking barn.

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I wanted to make some joke about “alternative facts” but everyone else has already done a better job. Good luck out there, all of you.

I’m on my period, Inauguration Edition

Yesterday was full of…what’s the opposite of irony? Is irony too nebulous a concept to have an opposite? Well, yesterday was a little on-the-nose for me, in terms of the inauguration and its surrounding activities.

Yesterday at work we had to pull in some members of the larger team to help with some work our auxiliary team had. Most of this involved stuffing thousands of envelopes, an activity you will be surprised to find out some people don’t really know how to do. To be fair, it’s slightly more involved than just putting paper in an envelope because this is *~*~GoOgLe~*~* but not by a lot. Long story short, I ended up having to deal with training, organization, and direction above my pay grade, as I get paid less than the other two people on the team. Anyhow, to get to the point:

One of the auxiliary team members we grabbed was – surprise, surprise! – a mediocre, straight, wealthy white dude! Do you see where this is going? He put on the inauguration (to make fun of, no less) as we were stuffing envelopes, and the comparison was laughable. He stared intently into his computer screen, hands idle, while poorer, browner, gayer, and womanly-er people diligently stuffed envelopes around him, for literal hours. I was put in charge of a few people, who were all finished before everyone else (#HBIC), but not of him, so I didn’t feel comfortable telling him to get back to work – and the person who was in charge of him wasn’t doing anything. So, to spell it our for you dummies, while the rest of us did our work industriously, the one whitest, wealthiest white guy in the room sat around and watched the whitest, wealthiest white guy in the room get recognized for the most powerful position in the world (while I silently suffered from burning menstrual cramps, let me remind you). Also, he used sexist language and made fun of me when I called him out. This is a self-proclaimed male ally. GOD FUCKING DAMMIT!

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#me

Shall we continue our on-the-nose journey?

Today is the women’s march, and I had planned to attend. But come on! I’m on my period, and the only tampons I have are the ones that you have to stuff up yourself like you’re in the goddamned Stone Age because those were the only ones they had in Slovenia, and I used my last good one last period. Like, I know you were Yugoslavia like five minutes ago, but get with the fucking picture!

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ProComfort my fucking ass – or should I say my vag.

But then again, statistically, 20 to 25 percent of the people in this march will be on their period (unless, of course, all those people decide to stay home). Why the fuck should I have to walk with no bathroom for five hours to protest the removal of my own rights while millions of men stay home on their comfy couches? I guess that’s the whole thing. STUPID IRONY!

I can’t be funny right now, y’all. My sense of humor is exiting my body with gusto in clumps of blood through my vag-hole. How about you make me laugh?!