I found myself being woken up early last Tuesday by Lois, wanting to know if I was still coming with her.  Pulling my sorry arse out of bed post 2 hours of rough sleep as my brain wouldn’t quieten down, myself and Red escorted Lois to her gynaecology appointment.

Having previously agreed as to escorting her, I had a few reasons up my sleeve.

One was to fight the doctor if he/she chose not to do surgery ASAP to ease Lois’ pain and discomfort.  By eliminating those pesky ovaries of her’s that have caused her nothing but trouble over the past 10+ years.  Secondly, it was my excuse to get out of the house without having to drive myself around town because I am somewhat lazy.  Also, hello potential employment ground if Brisbane doesn’t hold the key factor.

Two hours spent watching, waiting and studying for my pharmacology exam, Lois and Red fluttered between the OBYGN and surgical departments.  

The times of where I felt like my head was going to explode for the incorrect information having been provided within the stupid E-book chapters, provided by a certain moron.  This is where at one stage during my period of waiting, I found myself to weeping uncontrollably.  No, it was not because of the factor Lois has just told me that she was able to have surgery but rather I was crying over the ad of a child, not being able to have drinkable water in Africa.

For someone who finds it uncomfortable to merely show affection in public around strangers or cry in front of family, I was highly uncomfortable and awkward to say the least.

This thought or rather feeling seemed to follow me in the shower this evening when suddenly, I had an epiphany.

Not just any old epiphany that a small child might have before proclaiming loudly, ‘I’m going to be a mermaid/fire fighter’.  Which would change when they are an adult as being a mermaid may prove to be difficult, ‘I’m off to join Green Peace and sail the seas of distant lands and be captured by a pirate’.

Rather the epiphany I had as to where this blog was going to eventually end up.

As we all know by now,  I am a female through and through and effectively, I have ‘girly parts’.  However, because I am not one to beat around the bush and be polite, I have a vagina and ovaries.  There wasn’t so hard was it?  In my case, I was once told by a friend’s mother one drunken night (her, not me) and I quote: “once a month, your flower shall bloom.  After blooming, a bee will come along and pollinate this flower”.  

Satan’s Hand Maiden & I….

At the tender age of 13, it was safe to say that I was fucking confused as to what this person was talking about.  Since it was in ‘adult’ code and I was still a child.  This resulted in me going back those horrifying years and from knowledge of being strummed into me; that this woman was talking about a girl’s/woman’s worst enemy arriving. 


Arriving on some speedy, cool looking motor bike that would do a quick burn out and than bugger off, this proved to be too easy.

Instead, would arrive via stage coach where suddenly the wheel would break, thus causing it to linger around town before leaving.  Slowly.

But having said that though, this is the mother who once threw a book at her daughter, hitting her in the head.  Informing said daughter that if she read the book, it would inform her as to everything what was happening.  I was told of this books existence when I went over to my friend’s place after a netball game and picked up the book.  This is when curious Annie came out and I went seeking answers, only to be informed this book had told her everything she needed to know.

Unfortunately, what the book didn’t tell her was how to apply a panty liner when her period decided to make its self known.  How to walk normally when we have to wear those uncomfortable as fuck liners between our legs.  Dealing with itching and sometimes painful situation, we find ourselves in when we haven’t had the opportunity to go for our monthly wax as the fucker has arrived early.  Or for those who are the few to go au natural and don’t wish to maintain their lady garden.

Don’t worry about having a wax because you get it for free when you have to rip the pad from your neither region. 

This book did not inform her on how to deal with psycho mothers.  Particularly when they acted as if the world had come to a complete end with an atomic bomb going off.  Especially when having a period would somehow send a message to any male within a 500 kilometre distance, indicating now would be the perfect time to have sex.  

It also didn’t inform her on how to insert a tampon properly and the duration of time it can spend inside of the female body cavity.

Finally, this book did not tell her what to do in situations where the string, which once belonging to the tampon, is now in your hand.  Before the realization of said tampon is still inside of your vagina and your mind goes, ‘Oh fuck!’.  

After reading this book which I personally would have used as a fire starter, I promptly refused to step into a toilet cubicle with said friend and teach how to insert a tampon.  Or in that situation of the tampon breaking, having to remove it.   I considered it a friendly duty when I had to inform her on how to apply a panty liner and walk normally.  However, there comes a time in my relationships with my female friends when I shall sit here and say, “oh hell no!”.

Unless they throw in a free manicure, bikini wax and a round of cosmopolitans, then there is no way I am coming close to eating pussy while trying to remove their tampon.

No offence to any lesbians out there who happen to be reading this.

Having discussed the possibility of carrying children and risk of cervical cancer, I brought 
up the story of the book throwing Mum to Lois.  While a very uncomfortable Red sat next to us trying to eat his lunch as he was subjected to ‘period talks’.  It wasn’t the fact that his two daughters have periods and openly discuss the difficulties of cramping.  Rather it was the fact that he comes from a background of where such things were  never discussed until Lois arrived on the scene.

Young Pablo & I…

Because my Dad had no idea as to what these things were, Lois ended up having to educate him as to what periods were, how often they arrived and how long they lasted for.  Which Red would later return in favour when discussing life and puberty with the boys.  So Frodo and Pablo had a knowledge and understanding as to why women become hormonal, teary and downright cranky once a month. 

It was in that moment while Lois was gazing at Red with love written on her face, I felt a sense of immense relief and satisfaction.  Not only at my mother but also at my Father.

I felt pride towards Red because he had not only educated my brothers on how they should treat women with respect but also informed them as to how complicating periods can be.  

He educated them on not being arseholes when their sister, wife or girlfriend is standing there crying while holding onto an empty box of tampons; that it would be nice if they could go down the road and buy some.   Preferably taking the empty box from our hands and buying the ones we prefer and not some shit brand.  It would also be nice if we had another bar of chocolate and pain meds since we have run out.

As for Lois, I was thankful I had a mother who thought it was best to inform her daughters as to what was going to happen.  

This meant after the younger kids would go to bed, I was brought to the kitchen table and made to sit down.  There at the table where family discussions would occur as future adults, books dedicated to teaching women about their body sat, waiting to be looked at.  This was the prime opportunity to have the talk of the ‘birds and the bees’.

Instead of being given the 70’s version of how the bee would come and pollinate the flower, as I would later be subjected to at 13, I was given the upfront and sometimes down right scary version.  

I was told about how my chest would go from being flat, developing breast tissue before being shown images in the books as to different shapes, colours and sizes of breasts.  I was educated on periods while Lois was open about her own periods, she had as a teenager.  How there was a possibility that I could fall pregnant easily when it came time to having children.  But it would a incredibly hard time trying to carry the child past the first trimester and than eventually full term.

This is when I found myself at the age of 11, starting to complete what age I wanted to be before I started having children.  And what the age cut off would be when I wanted to stop having children.  It was in that moment I knew within my heart, I either wanted to have or start trying to have children when I was 26 or later.  And by the time I was 35, I would close up shop and never have children after that no matter what my husband wanted.

I considered the fact that if I didn’t have children due to various reasons such as not finding someone suitable, busy working/travelling life or suffering multiple miscarriages; then I wouldn’t be having children.  Instead, I would focus my attention on loving my nieces and nephews while being the best darn Aunty any child could possibly want.

Knowing that if I wasn’t married or in a long term partnership with someone, who I wanted to have children with; there were plenty of options as to having children.  

When I was much older, I started watching how men interacted with children.  I picked out traits I would like this person to have as man and what I certainly didn’t want as a father figure.  Also, I started to think about how many children I wanted, why I wanted a certain number, how I would raise these children and and what principles and ethical standards would be included in the up keeping and raising of these children.

I thought of the relationship I would have with my children such as would I go with the ‘Oh no, I am your older sister/fun Mum’ figure or would I rule my household and children with a stern, cold hard fist.  With no compromises and if they didn’t toe the line than they would face severe penalties.  

However, the main thing from back then to even now is being told by my future children, ‘you didn’t spend enough time with us as we were growing.  You worked for most of our lives and we really don’t know you all that well’.

I’ve personally lived in a similar situation where Lois was the main parent who raised me as Red was a butcher and a shift worker.  Where I only ever got to see him when it was the weekend as we had been raised knowing we couldn’t wake him up before leaving for school as he had just finished a shift and needed sleep.  Because I have been in that scenario, the way I have been raised by a married, single parent from a young age to teenage years, has made me think outside of the box that most people live in.

The 5 O’Chunky Kids….

Telling both of my parents I was thankful for the life lessons they have taught me and no doubt, will continue to teach me as time goes on. 

I also brought up what it was like being informed about puberty.  Lois laughed and asked me how I would have described it when she told me about what was happening.

The sentence that has followed me around these since the age of 10 was, ‘what is going to happen is wonderful and magical’.

They were magical indeed as for being wonderful… You’ve got to be bloody kidding me!

I won’t mention the growing pains I hadn’t been informed about.  That would cause me to wake up during the night, crying.  Due to my legs and arms grew in length as my ‘child bearing’ hips broadened from being the slim child I had one been.  

To where I would be walking around with hips that could no longer fit into my clothes and I found it difficult to find clothes that would fit my tiny waist and sit comfortably on my hips.  Not to mention going to sleep one night and waking up the next morning with breasts.  Breasts that for some reason decided to appear over night.  Breasts that left me pointing at my chest and going ‘where did these come from?’ before flashing Lois my newly found assets.

Forget training bras and hello under wiring for the rest of my life! 

The embarrassing thing I discovered was women had to be fitted for bras.  Especially when you don’t know what cup size you are.  

Oh how I suffered through the awkwardness while smelling the lady’s perfume as she wrapped the tape around my chest and measuring from shoulder to shoulder.  She then took a step back while placing the tape around her neck before asking me how old I was.  It was within the next couple of minutes I discovered, in Satan’s Hand Maiden’s spare bedroom, I had the same breast size as her.

Least to say when she found out, I was repeatedly stabbed and burnt in my back by Darth Vadar’s light saber.

Because of fluctuating hormones and the factor my body goes through a yo-yo system of dropping/adding weight, I am not looking forward to the day where I can no longer walk into a shop and find something cute.   

Instead, I have to go to the grandma section dedicated to women with big busts/bottoms  and buy myself that could only be described as: ‘scary stomach-holding-in pants very popular with grannies the world over’.  

Thus when I am being undressed hopefully by Mr. Darcy, I won’t be hearing the words: “these are, fuck me, absolutely enormous panties”.  

Which come in two maybe three colours (if you are lucky) and that just so happens to be: white, beige and more bloody beige.

As we all know by now, I fucking detest beige and grandma style bras/panties.

Due to fluctuating weight particularly when it comes to our breasts/arse sizes; women in the developed countries would state we live and breathe for a bra/underwear that is comfortable.  In some cases, we prefer comfort over something that is sexy and has the death defy factor of causing camel toe.  

We live for underwear which makes us women feel like we can conquer the world where Patriotism has created that glass ceiling.  We live for underwear that causes us to feel like we are that spitfire, who backs and creates our dream job and when behind closed doors; we are every man’s fantasy.

Don’t worry about reading your addition of Fifty Shades of Small Cocks, in fact put that down and let me show you how of a big, bad boy you are really are.

Being able to find comfortable garments, particularly when we have our period, is something of a rarity.  

We tend to buy 10 bras from the same manufacturer and wear them until they are soft and pliable because they are comfy.  We want underwear that doesn’t consist of two strings between our arse cheeks as men tend to believe they are extremely comfortable.  Yes they look amazing particularly when we strip in front of you but having spent most of the day walking around with our arses on fire and a camel toe….no thank you.

This is why around 5 pm after being strapped in a bra/g-string from 5 am that morning, we are glaring at the clock, counting down the time.  

So when it comes to home time, we rip this piece of shit off our bodies.  Whether its in the elevator at work, walking out of the last tute for the day, boarding public transport or within the comfort of our own home.  After the offending article has been removed, we stand there cupping our breasts as the tension is released from our back, neck and chest muscles.  

This is when I believe the quote of #TheStruggleIsReal should be inserted because men have no idea what it is like to be a woman.  Whether we are facing a bra crisis where the boning has decided to stab us repeatedly in the breast or our period has decided to turn up a week early, lo behold we have no tampons/pads on us; men have no idea at all.

I believe men think that is hunky dory being a chick and that we love to get waxed so we resemble a 10 year old because the latest fashion statement is to have a bald vagina.  Where you are considered to be lacking in sexual knowledge if you haven’t had anal, which is so 2015 and yet having sex while you have your period is so like, last year.

Men have no idea how much money we spend on plucking ourselves into perfection.  Making monthly appointments so then when it comes time to being eaten out, we don’t have to listen to the bitching and moaning about having ‘hair down there’.  Dying, blow drying, sculpturing, buying sexy and somewhat uncomfortable lingerie, being told to lose weight and the factor of needing to be in 5″ heels on a daily basis is not even recognised.

Yes, I know we have the option of sitting there and telling you to get fucked.  Yes, I know we have the option of not having our pubes ripped out, burns risk from hot wax being applied to our vagina or the uncomfortable factor of a pubic hair is sticking out of bounds perimeter of our bikini bottoms is frightening.  Thus we are resorting to waxing that hair away, ordering IPL so we don’t have to deal with those annoying appointments and shaving rush jobs we all have been known to do.

Guilty on that account, I am.

We do it because it makes us feel attractive in the high heels spectrum.  Makes you acknowledge the fact that we are pleasing you and also so we don’t have to listen to you whinge about eating hairy pussy.  As to lingerie, if you want us to wear it for you, then how about you buy the pieces.  We try them on and we get to keep our money for more important items like tampons, pads, chocolate and heels.

Because to this day, I am still yet to meet a female whose partner lets them be all natural.  And a man who doesn’t complain about his girlfriend not taking care of business and where he states he actually prefers a bush.

With this on my mind, I found myself the next day walking down the aisle at the local supermarket which was dedicated purely to women.  The aisle featured hair colours, make up, nail polish, facial wash, waxing kits and found myself staring at the selection of pads and tampons available.

Once upon a time I wouldn’t have been caught dead in that aisle.

But now as an adult, with a man standing next to me, I picked up a pack of pads and started looking at the ingredients.  Since I am a freak who is allergic to aloe vera and since companies are obsessed with putting it into feminine products, I glanced up and saw that the man was staring at me with an eyebrow raised.  Deciding it was best to ignore him in case I got asked the dreaded question of, ‘what brand do you prefer’, I noticed that the company had included aloe in their products. 

Sighing to my disgust and horror, I left the aisle while shaking my head at what idiot puts aloe vera in tampons and pads.

I would soon meet up with Mr. Strange Look at the checkout and as I scanned my block peppermint chocolate, iced tea, spinach leaves, feta cheese, apples and peanut butter; I asked him if I could help him.  Since he was now staring at me strangely when I glanced at his trolley and noticed he was buying the same things as me.

Clearly he was shopping for someone who was exactly in the same mood as me.

Fighting my way out of the car park while wondering why I was suddenly craving chocolate like I had never tried any before, I pulled over and brought up an app on my phone.  It soon clicked as to why I was experiencing mass amounts of emotional mood swings that took me from being happy and on cloud nine to weeping dramatically over an African ad.  Before having the switched completely to staring at everything like it needed to be smothered in some form of whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles.

Hello period cravings and PMS.  

On top of of this, if it were possible to administer iced tea by drip feed through my veins and not worrying about running out; where do I sign up?

To the epiphany in the shower this evening which caused me to drop the shampoo bottle and go wide eyed, I knew how this blog was going to span out.

Hurriedly turning off the water because the inner country gal in me was screaming, “two minutes is up! You’re wasting water!”; I grabbed my towel and bolted from the bathroom.

Blogging in style..

Setting up in the once place that would allow the word to flow from brain to page, I am sitting at the kitchen table in the sun room. 

With a cup of iced tea sitting next to me and a few blocks of peppermint chocolate, towel on my head and old nanna’s style dressing gown keeping me warm, I could be found pounding away at the keys, writing about the struggles of being a female.  

Particularly as a female who has experienced many ups and downs of teenage years.  Constant fluctuating hormones that have caused eating disorders and a mental thought as to how I view and perceive myself.  Not to mention living and quietly dealing with the the emotional bullying when discovering who I was as a person.  Which I happened to write about in Dear Little Wallflower.  

After spending a couple of hours writing about periods and what kind of struggle women went through, I sent Lady Blacksnot a message.  

Having sent her a video earlier this week about why it was a bonus we were single girls, such as not having to share our television with a guy and football or our beds; our usual conversations started.  I joked about her hopefully coming back from New Zealand not having sustained any injuries or eye infections, so we could go out for dinner.  Post celebration of her recovery of remaining alive, my 5 months of being a born again virgin and no doubt.  Our decisions about erotic toys, kinky sex lives and erotic fantasies would be spoken of over dinner.

When I abruptly turned the tables on her and admitted that I was writing another blog post.  Except this time, I finished off the statement by asking what her thoughts on periods were.  Thus the conversation turned out something like this:

It’s safe to say that Lady Blacksnot won’t be sitting with us women who cramp like something fierce and spend the first three days in bed, dying.  Also because I know she is reading this as having stated already is some conversation above: You can’t sit with us and we wear red on Wednesdays.  Not pink or white.

But why do you consider it to be a struggle for real women when it comes to having a period, dealing with the emotions to the prelude of the epic downfall of Pompei and just being a female in general?

I can honestly say that this answer has been on my mind for the past few days.  From when I originally started formulating the idea as to what I wanted to write about, photos I would include in this post to eventually writing it.  Instead, I don’t think I was able to find one logical reason as to why I perceive being a woman is and can often be a struggle.  Rather, I thought of the 10 most logical reasons as to why I thought #TheStruggleIsReal.

Particularly when we are dealing with what can only be described as a mass suicide of cells, happening in our pants.

With that, here is my top 10 reasons as to why I believe being a woman is a complete and utter struggle.

1.)  We have two completely separate piles of undergarments.

Unlike males who just so happen to have one set of underwear, women are known in society to have two completely different styles of underwear.

These styles include one set that is purely reserved for those moments where we are period free.  Where we walk around on cloud nine, knowing that we are tampon/pad free and where we can enjoy the feel of not having to freak out and make the mad dash to the bathroom.  Nor suffer the niggling and humiliating factor of having to ask a friend, “do I have something on the back of my skirt/dress?’

Which is code for: ‘Yeap, my body is killing unfertilised baby eggs’.

The second set of undergarments women own are only worn when we have our periods.  Legit.

That pile of undies are never to be seen by man kind and I mean man with a penis.  At All.  Ever.  Those undergarments that I speak of are something created from a foreign land that only ever appear once a month and remain hidden at all times.  These pants can only be described as non-sexy, grandma style, cotton and are often from the outcast pile we have when we have stretched them from previous periods.  Plus, we do not have to fear getting them stained as well, they are old and can be easily disposed of.

    2.)  Paranoia.

    Paranoia plays a major factor when we have our period.

    Which normally we wouldn’t allow it to rule our lives but in this case, it goes into a full fledged downward spiral.  We find ourselves sleeping in awkward positions so then we don’t have to wake up with the fear of ‘did I experience a Niagara Falls moment while I was asleep?’.  We find ourselves to be have more secret ninja moves as we stealthily crack upon that secret package that binds our pads and tampons closed while praying that the next person isn’t listening.

    Not mention we become paranoid that our tampon isn’t doing the job properly, even though it states on the package ‘should be replaced every 4-6 hours’.  Resulting in us walking like flamingos, who have escaped from Africa and somehow accidentally ended up in the wilderness of the city.

    The best moment that paranoia strikes is when we discover…. I have no tampons or pads.  FUCK!  Which causes us to mutter to ourselves on more than one occasion, ‘Why did you have to turn up early?  Bastard!’

    We then do the ’emergency’ dash of rolling up toilet paper and stuffing it into our underwear as we remember that there was a pad/tampon box outside near the wash basins.  To discover after we put in a $2 coin that there are no tampons as someone has forgotten to fill the blasted thing up.  We then awkwardly make our way to the shops, wait in line for our tampons.

    Which brings me to number three.

    3.)  Buying and toting around feminine products.

    I don’t care how confident I am as a woman but I find that there is something revealing when I walk through the grocery store with my choice of tampons and panty liners.  

    It is even more worse when you get served by a teenager, who just so happens to be male and he stares at you like you are some freak, who happens to have their rags.  Even more slightly then being served by a male teenager is when the bar code on the tampon package doesn’t scan and they have to call out over the shop wide speaker; Price check, U tampons, slim. Price check”.

    Thank you.

    I am already dying of embarrassment but now I should just go and kill myself.  Excuse me while I go and do that.

    Or you have the lady who judges you for your tampon size.  I was once told on more than once, “Doing your kegals then, good for you.  However, I personally find the regulars to be more comfortable, you should try them out.  Might do you a world of good and it might save you money since you are buying more than one pack of tampons”.  

    It is in this case that I feel like opening my mouth and suggesting, “If I wanted your two cents as to what brand or size you prefer for my vagina, I would have asked you”.  However, my personal favourite is being critised silently because I just so happen to be a unmarried woman and only married women use tampons.  Not to mention clearly I am a ‘loose’ kind of gal as I am using those and I have no virginity left.  Once again, I love much older women.

    Overall, the whole ‘yes I have my period’ talk you happen to have with the sales assistant is awkward.  But not as awkward when you decide to grab a pen from your bag and a tampon falls out.  In front of guy that you just so happened to have been drawling over for the past 10 minutes and he bends down to pick it up before saying, “My girlfriend uses this brand as well”.  Hence why I am never going to get married nor have sex again.

    4.)  You wanted to go swimming/wear a bikini.

    Completely forget about that one.  

    Good luck trying to find that comfortable position for the tampon.  Only to find out when you go to the bathroom and just so happen to stand in front of a full length mirror, that the string is sticking out.  Sealing it off on the scale of 0-10 for embarrassing and coming in at a 15, you soon realise that the looks you have been getting from strangers is not because of your new and cute bikini.

    Rather they’ve been staring at the string dangling out next to your inner thigh and not once have you had a female come up and whisper, ‘the string to your tampon string is sticking out”.  Thank you humanity!

    Also remember that cute little bikini you have been dying to wear for summer, forget it!  Ruined.  For.  Life.  Bye bye and ‘I’m sorry, we don’t have that particular bikini any more’.  Once again: Thank you period!

    5.)  Sex Life.

    I am sure there are women around the world who go from: loving men, wanting to jump their bones at all hours of the day too wishing they would die.  I just so happen to be one of those women.

    I often find when I am experiencing my midlife crisis of being a female before I am held up in bed, dying; men become something of a different kind.  No doubt about that at all.  Any other time of the month, I see men as being foreign and often resulted from the thought of them being patted on the backs while receiving a golden hand shake.  Not having to fight against prejudiced beliefs the workforce has built their backbone on particularly when it comes to dealing with women.

    And the lack of our social rights of fair equal wage, respect on all accounts and the realization that we haven’t been put on earth to be seen as sexual fantasies purely.  Also not having to deal with the workforce disliking women as we have two things: a vagina being one of them and the workforce having to pay maternity leave, as we one day might want to have children.  God forbid that might ever enter our brains.

    However when it is clearly time for my ovaries to kick into production and make cells, only for them to be killed in mass suicide, men become god like creatures.  These God like creatures, whose shoulders need to be appreciated due to the span of them when they are in a button, crisp shirt with a tie.  Before my eyes begin their trail of sweeping down past the mouth watering chest, that just so happens to have a peak of chest hair peaking over the top button before my eyes rest on what style of shoes are being worn.

    But when I am experiencing my death like status, I hate men.  Everything from the top of their heads to the bottom of their toes, I absolutely hate.  This is when my true feminist and Germaine Greer persona comes out as I am curled up on the couch, smothering myself in whipped cream and apples.

    6.)  Emotions….. So many emotions.
    What can I say about the emotions that the average woman will feel while she is menstruating and creating mass suicidal eggs?

    This is the little overview as to the average amount of emotions I experience when I suffering the signs and symptoms of being a female, particularly one that isn’t pregnant.  Now word of warning, these emotions that I am about to list for your little eyes to read is something that I will experience in a space of 10 minutes.

    I start off in a state of mind that is relatively calm until I see an article with Tony Abbott or something to do with Sheila.  The next minute, I have to urge of wanting to hit them…in the face…with a shovel.  With a flick of the page, I suddenly am craving random crap that I may or may not own in my pantry so I find myself getting into my car and picking up random things.  Pickles with cocktail onions, feta cheese with tuna and lettuce tossed into a salad, chocolate or apples with crunchy peanut butter is a must.  

    When I found out Lois didn’t have apples or peanut butter, I started crying.  I felt as if I was being deprived of the one or rather two major requirements I needed in that present point of time.  Once I got those things and shoved them into my mouth, I was your happy-go-lucky human.  The thought of misplacing my pen caused me to mutter angrily,’stupid pen!’ before pounding angrily at the keyboard.  Before glancing up and noticing Red was watching Youtube about humanity and social tests conducted on homeless people.  This caused me to once again burst into utter, hysterical tears.

    7.)  Pain.

    I’m sorry?  You’re currently experiencing a scraped knee.  And you just so happen to be having a massive bitch about that.

    Oh, wait until you experience the sensation of being repeatedly punched in the ovaries, being burnt inside of your uterus by a hot poker and your vagina feeling as if there is barbed wire inside of you.  Plus the discomfort of having a tampon lodged up where the sunshine don’t shine and when sitting down, groaning because you haven’t put it in the correct spot.  Only to then go to the bathroom again, fight with your clothing so you can ‘fix’ yourself up so then you feel slightly comfortable all the while counting down until the crime is over.

    How about when you experience all of those sensations every month for the rest of your life, or until your ovaries decide it is time to close up shop for good, then feel free to come and bitch to me about being in pain.


    Also don’t get me started on the lack of pain relief and hot water bottles shortage.

    8.)  Periods.

    9.)  You wish you weren’t a girl.

    Enough said.

    10.)  The only good thing about periods

    Knowing you aren’t pregnant.

    Until next time,

    Cheers xo

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