“Women. The only creatures that bleed for five days straight and don’t die” – Bernard Manning.
There’s something deeply unattractive about a woman who describes her menstruative processes in any great detail. A well-placed use of the word “cunt”, an intimate knowledge of the off-side rule, a reluctance to perform domestic duties and a record collection without shite r’n’b’ records can all be attractive in the right light.
“I like a bird who knows her own mind. I’m bored with shagging girls that giggle and comply. Where’s the challenge?” Says Joe Bloggs, 34, Morcambe.
Correction Monsieur Bloggs, you like a woman who adheres to a post-modern conception of womanhood. Who is at one and the same time able to dress in a woollen mini, own Prada handbags, play Grand Theft Auto and grab the bull by the horns in regard to anal sex suggestions, because she is unburdened by the patriarchal restrictions of old and is now engaged in a far more complex set of restrictions (still patriarchal) in which she can shag who she wants but as she’s wearing crotchless knickers she’s only got a 5% chance of getting a conviction if the sex is non-consentual.
I’m going off track. Periods. So.
Women amongst one another have a vague approach to menstruation too. It’s all euphemisms and inferences (time of the month, on, woman’s trouble). Women who willingly discuss the fact that two pints of blood are edging their way painfully from their cervix into their sub-standard sanitary choice are viewed as uncouth, smelly and odd. I say two pints of blood because, contrary to the ‘period chat’ you get in top infants which consists of a buxom no-shit nurse showing you an expanding tampon in a bowl of water in the school library in which she insists that although it seems like more you only get two tablespoons full during your entire period, it’s pints. It’s fucking pints.
I’m supposed to sit at work, on the bus, around the Christmas table, at an interview, in the Doctor’s waiting room, at the Dentist, in a traffic jam and in a nightclub with pints of blood stealthily eminating from my groinal region and the most i can permissably say on the matter is, ‘I’m a bit under the weather [whisper] I’m on’.
If i’d been stabbed in the arm and was shakey and weak from the blood loss, i wouldn’t be expected to do the Macarena, or lift piles of paperwork, or stand up on the centre aisle of the bus.
Women are so out-of-touch with their inherently female bodily function that even they haven’t twigged that the PRE in Pre Menstrual Tension, relates to the time directly BEFORE your period when your body thinks it might be pregnant so you get fat and hold on to water, and you don’t shit or sweat until you come on and everything gets released. The Mood stems from the fact that your hormones instigate a process that holds on to all the shit you won’t need when you bleed. Therefore when some cocky cunt says:
“Oooooooooh, someone’s being a tetchy fucker. Is it because you’re on?”
The appropriate response is:
“No the fact that i am on, despite being hideously painful is actually an emotional release and i feel much calmer that i did yesterday, when my body thought it could be pregnant so held on to my superfluous Mars Bars and gave me toxin fuelled hormonal rage in a bid to prepare my body for reproduction. I’m a tetchy fucker because i’m a smelly fat lesbo who likes to discuss her genital blood flow with anyone who will listen”.
My ma was brought up in a Catholic country and her ma said she couldn’t touch meat in the fridge when she was on because she’d contaminate it. Seems a bit medieval and against the basic principles of sisterhood? Well how have we moved on when you can show gang rape on telly at half past nine, but all period adverts feature blue fucking blood?
Love from The Smelly Fat Lesbo x
PS If you’ve got a dick and you’ve got this far, well done.