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.
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.
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.
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!
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!
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?!
I’m feeling hella burned out after a day of disappointment and rejection, and in preparation for a horrifying presidential inauguration. Thank fake Jesus for Yoga with Adriene, or I might have torn my adorable armadillo-shaped table lamp from the wall and pitched it from my bedroom window, with no regard to human, plant, or porcelain armadillo life. Also, thank fake Jesus for Elizabeth Warren, with whom, in my dreams, I am sister wives to Adriene, of Yoga with Adriene.
Is that weird? Is it as weird as this guy going into the subway at Barclays Center?
If so, I really need to have a conversation with myself.
Actually, I don’t give a fuck. Rejection has a way of either constricting you into a more acceptable position or softening your shame muscles into a glorious man-spread of not-giving-a-fuck-dom. I’m being vague for job reasons, because this stupid fucking blog is public. Y’all know that if it wasn’t, I’d be talking some real shit.
Like the fuckhead at Google that left the GODDAMN seat up when he left the bathroom right before me! Like, he looked me in the eye as he left, leaving the seat up. How do grown men in their thirties and forties live their entire lives without learning the habit of putting the seat down? I started dating someone who liked the lid down when the toilet is flushed to avoid nasty-ass butt germs flying around the bathroom like disgusting, tiny hang gliders, and it took me like a week to develop the habit of putting the lid down. Why are men so fucking dumb and inconsiderate? And before you bang your chest and exclaim, “Not all men!” to no one in particular, calm the fuck down. It’s just your hormones.
After days like today and yesterday, I treat myself with a movie and popcorn for dinner, companion optional. I took the Q to get home, which means walking by Doughnut Plant, and I resisted getting a doughnut. I feel like I deserve a fucking Nobel Prize for that restraint. If I’m being completely honest with you, though, it was only because I got one from there yesterday and earlier in the week too.
When I Googled “eating doughnuts stock photo,” like you do, a significant amount of the images featured pregnant women. Is that a thing? If so, sign me up!
I’ve been ragey as fuck all week because of the way mediocre white dudes get ahead while the women around them do the same work with more competence and grace – both in my life, and also in the collective life of our country in terms of our incoming executive branch.
Also because I have spent an inordinate amount of time this weird-weather-week with the exclamation, “Where the motherfuck is the C train?” flooding my brain as multiple E trains (which don’t even go to Brooklyn; they literally stop at the World Trade Center; why do they even run downtown in the evening, god fucking dammit) pass and A trains smugly enter and exit the station, half full.
When one little thing (nothing big, just the crushing weight of the patriarchy over all of us) is irking me, everything else seems so much more annoying. Some dude was spreading his legs like he was fucking crowning on the crowded-ass train this morning and I wanted to javelin my knitting needle straight into his crotch. Too violent? I think the real tragedy in that hypothetical scenario is potentially losing my knitting needle to some shithead’s crotch.
To temper my impending insanity I’m doing the 31-day Yoga Revolution with Adriene, the new queen goddess of my heart. She is everything. Yoga is…something, I guess. I can finally touch my toes, and it’s like exercising, except you mostly get to sit during it. So I can get down with that. Now I just need to get a yoga mat instead of using my lambskin rug like a fucking Neanderthal.
…And just like that, there’s an active crime scene blocking off Atlantic Avenue, where I walk to get to the train.
In order to maintain the buoyant feeling of the first few days of January, I’m doing my best to appreciate the little things:
The triumph of the single-occupancy bathroom (AKA the pooping bathroom) at work being blissfully empty when I covertly check while strolling casually by.
Seeing a movie by my own damn self because who the fuck wants to share popcorn, really? Plus, no one I know wants as much fake butter on their popcorn as I do.
Realizing that I can get a fantastic core workout from doing the Pee Wee Herman dance. I should start my own exercise video, except it will just be this gif:
Seriously, try it! I’m gonna make a million bucks.
It’s been a long week, as post-vacation tends to be. Pro tip: don’t stray from eating vegetables for a week and a half and then return with gusto to five servings a day. I’m learning that lesson the hard way. It is, however, enabling me to practice farting on command so that, in the future, when creepy dudes are leering at me, the sexual attraction and disgust centers of their brains will forge a new connection, never to be separated. From now on, whenever someone farts, a new erection will be born.
This morning as I was trudging down 15th Street, crammed between the stench of Chelsea Market and what feels like the world’s most long-lived construction site, I passed a hard-looking black guy bounding down the rain-shrouded sidewalk exactly, and I mean exactly, like this:
The vision of his cartoonish joy coupled with the remnants of my own vacation contentment nudged the day into “good,” perhaps even “great,” and I couldn’t help but feel optimistic for the coming year.
This is especially surprising given that ahead of us lies the coldest phase of winter in New York. Plus, it appears to me as though the throngs of tourists clogging up the streets prior to Christmas have barely diminished. As anyone who has visited New York in the month of December knows, pre-Christmas in the city is what Dante based his Inferno on.
Nonetheless, and despite the fearful nature of our political future, there’s a sense of renewal and positivity in the air. Each interaction with a stranger is accompanied by a “Happy New Year!” and there seems to be the ghost of a smile on more than the usual number of faces.
Or maybe I just accidentally took more than one dose of Lexapro this morning.
Either way, it’s cool with me. I hope y’all are feeling good this evening; and if you’re not, at least your roommates aren’t watching a TV show with a laugh track on it. That’s all.