I find myself at that particular time of the month, both with a bleeding vagina (gotta love having a period!) and trying to find the necessary words as to what it is exactly that I loved about the month of March.
So while you make yourself that classic and deliciously sinful martini with three olives and I go nose diving into my handbag for the loose tampon, that just so happens to be hiding in someone’s arse crack, this is my March Monthly Favourites post.
My farewell exit of February arrived on the back of Elvis’ coat as he disappeared from the building as I came to the conclusion that at twenty-something, I am no longer a preppy 18 year old who can drink a few
hundred rounds of shots and still look remotely casual and hot.
Instead at the age of twenty-something, you would have thought I’d be the more mature one and start actually acting like it. Rather by pure accident, I discovered when suffering from a hangover three days after my birthday weekend that I should probably step away from any form of alcohol, men wearing white shirts and being grinded against someone who had pupils the size of a pinhead (drugs maybe or were they excited to see the indent of my nipples?)
I should also openly take up the art form of knitting a sweater made from the hairs of my unshaved legs and armpits.
One ticket to Spinsterhood Nation please.
When the little demon inside of my head departed alongside Elvis and February, I was alerted to the newest monthly addition by a notification screaming from my phone like a disturbed woman in a horror film. You know the poor woman that you can’t help but scream at the television “don’t go in there!” and what does the psycho bitch do?
She does exactly what you told her not to do and well, she ends up getting murdered and being chopped into little figurines for the black market. But back to the story as I clearly got sidetracked with psycho bitch in the chop shop.
As you can all imagine having been woken with a start as my phone let out this piercing scream of an impending notification and thinking that it was my work calling me to say that they didn’t need me and I could sleep in (a girl can only dream!), I peered at screen and almost let out a scream myself.
There in black and white was not the message saying I was entitled to having a sleep in and a deluxe facial skin care treatment as I was instead reading, ‘The Irish are coming in 9 days’.
The first thought that came to my mind was if Orange Is The New Black actually existed and Ruby Rose was my girlfriend, I was going to do two things and they were:
One: I was going to shank a bitch.
Two: I was going back to sleep after I shanked the bitch.
Safe to say, I promptly deleted the notification and any trace remains of someone trying to communicate to me from the other side and found a pillow being stuffed over my face and the blankets being flipped around my shoulders because I thought it was cold.
That was until my body realised that I do not live in the United Kingdom or some lovely other country that has below freezing cold temperature at the moment and two seconds later, my body broke out into what I define as being my ‘pre-meno-Lois’ moment and promptly spent the rest of the night, sweating my tits and nipples off.
Speaking of sweating my tits and nipples straight off my chest, I experienced my seventh shower of the day and it didn’t feature water but rather the sweat running down my neck, back and arse crack (got to love some smut songs!). My love for March and everything that was brilliant was soon overshadowed by Mother Nature’s bi-polar attitude towards the weather.
As an Australian who lives in a tropical state, where sunflowers line a street in a small town and I can wrestle with a jellyfish and be stung to absolute shit, I consider myself to be pretty fortunate to only have two seasons. Unlike other states within the country.
The seasons that I somewhat speak not-so-fondly of include ‘I added another throw to my bed’ and ‘I’m attending my own cremation, alive’.
Even though I have spent the last seven weeks sweating my tits and nipples off whilst attending my own cremation in a morbid way, minus my coffin and grieving patrons otherwise known as my family; Mother Nature has decided to have the one disturbing and very final laugh.
As I suffered from the endless heatwaves that made me experience in return, endless bouts of heat stroke, seven showers of sweat and the need to murder someone for precious ice-cold liquid before bursting into tears because there is no sub-zero frozen water in my fridge. Over the last 10 days, I’ve been questioning as to whether or not I should dive head first into the storage cupboard under the stairs (Harry, you there?) for the floating devices before driving down the road because Mother Nature decided to turn the tables.
Instead of dying of the heat or spending a majority of my day in air conditioning in the hopes of escaping the heat, I now find myself wondering if I should conquer, divide and mutilate anyone who comes within a five hundred metre distance of bottled water and toilet paper. Because they appear like they are going near the aisle since it’s starting to look like I’ll be singing ‘koom-bye-yah’ while huddled around a snuffed out candle due to the increasing water levels because the last 10 days have been spent with it raining.
Better start stocking up on tampons than.
This is where I should probably state that as an Australian and more importantly, a woman who actually likes having her nipples firmly attached and planted to her chest; I hate the Australian summer and the month of March. Especially when it concerns the weather as Mother Nature doesn’t believe in taking her happy pills and is suffering a bi-polar meltdown. Summer as we know it tends to give way to two-three weeks of Autumn before waking up to 5 degree temperatures and winter arriving on my doorstep.
I can promise after my second cold snap and what seems like an endless winter long sniffling nose and cold that I will be complaining of winter and will be wishing for the heat. Either way, I’m fucked and so are you, Dearest Reader, because you’ll be reading all about my complaints on winter and how freezing it really isn’t.
Apart from the latest weather report and warning of how I think Winter is going to go down, March has been a month of positive and negative mental flux’s for me.
Like any woman who woke up one morning to discover that Barbie was the biggest slut on earth, her childhood had been snatched by a visibly growing stain of blood and boys possessed the germs we wanted to share by saliva; my mental flux’s have been a result of constant mood swings and hormonal changes that all point to two different locations on my body.
Starting off with the breast department before I actually sweated them and my nipples off, I woke up many times this month looking like I’d been blessed with Pamela Anderson’s rack and found myself complaining about the inconvenience it caused. Especially when it felt like I was being smothered that I actually feared going to sleep one night. Until the next morning when waking, I found myself contemplating membership for the itty-bitty-titty committee.
Before once again, complained about the inconvenience it caused when my tits didn’t fit my bikini or top. Oh that’s right… I sweated them off!
When joining the sisterhood vagina club, I discovered the negative side effects of joining said club since members must either have a vagina and/or two golf balls filled with unlimited amounts of suicidal, unfertilised eggs. But not just any Golf balls filled with suicidal and unfertilised eggs, for they must be golf balls that are ready to go at any given second when not required or your in the midst of a date and discover your vagina is murdering its self, brutally.
Sisters, can I get an ‘amen!’?
In return of my suicidal eggs and previous medical history that appears to have stretched as far as my arms can, I made an appointment to have a consultation with my Doctor. It would be after tucking a half drunk coffee with almond milk between my legs and having a one-sided screaming match on the benefits of doing the speed limit on the freeway, I found myself on my back with my legs in the air, staring at the white ceiling some thirty minutes later.
Despite the fact it was 7 o’clock in the morning, my Doctor found herself staring at my very naked vagina as she scrapped away cervical cells for a pap-smear; while I tried to muffle the scream bubbling away in the back of my throat.
Having initially tried to crab crawl my way back up the surgical bed whilst trying to stop the mind blowing pain as the once muffled scream escaped from between my lips, I wiped away the tears while pulling on my underwear and pants. It would be after taking a seat and being given some medication for pain relief as I shed a few tears before composing myself for society, my Doctor and I shared our mutual thought as to whether or not Dirty Harry had arrived back on the scene, with guns blazing.
That day, I lost my virginity for 2017 to Hootie and The Blowfish’s ‘Only Want To Be With You’ on the radio and a medical probe on the context of research.
A few days when collecting my results after having a trans-pelvic ultrasound, I was informed of the mortification my Doctor had experienced at the sheer velocity of pain I had experienced. It would be only after commenting on the amount of pain I had suffered where I was contemplating admitting myself to hospital as the cramping was enough to make me drop to my knees that I found out Dirty Harry, the Dirty Fucker he is, had not taken my ovary/ovaries hostage.
Even after staring at the black and white images of my ovaries that had a normal amount of follicles and not 14-20 like last year, I was informed of the negative aspect of my health. While Dirty Harry had not taken up residence and had definitely exited the building like Elvis and February, my Doctor and I had no fucking idea as to what the hell is wrong with my vagina, menstruation cycle and why having a simple pap-smear felt like I’d just participated in a gang-bang.
Would like to apologise to the women in the Fairy Godmother’s church group, who are reading about gang-bangs.
However when I wasn’t being serenaded by Hootie and The Blowfish whilst my cherry was popped in a dimly lit room after sharing a few minutes of awkward conversation, March saw me eat a lot of healthy shit in a bowl.
As I decided at the beginning of the month that I would participate in a 30 day health challenge for one since I’m a spinster and single.
This health challenge had a positive effect on the way I perceived, experienced and thought about food as I’ve always struggled with a history of food and eating disorders. While I developed a better rapport with food and how food can be manufactured as well as grown and sold for a reasonable price by my local farmers; I also discovered my love-hate relationship for cooking on a daily basis before resorting to doing a mass cooking on the weekend and freezing lunches and dinners for the upcoming week.
Even though the scales started dropping numbers and I started noticing and accepting the physical and mental changes within my body that came about as a result of the challenge and positive relationship with food, I did discover some negatives that came about this challenge and one of them being that it cost an arm, a leg as well as a kidney and it restricted a shit load of things that I love eating.
Such as my extensive love for pasta, legumes and Feta cheese as it is the only dairy product that doesn’t make me want to shit my pants… the joys of being lactose intolerant.
So as I bring this post to an end and it appears like this month has sucked cock a majority of the time and I’m now proudly sporting a best friend status with my vagina, March has taught me plenty of things. Such as the importance of having a regular pap smear, the relief women get when being told you don’t have cervical cancer and no STDs/STIs and small breasts are just as fucking annoying as large breasts.
March has also reconfirmed that I am still a walking medical dictionary catering towards freaks and lastly, going Paleo doesn’t cause you to shit your pants. Like I previously thought when I first heard about the fad diet. But it has reconfirmed my undying love for pasta, Feta cheese and my unwavering desire for a cupcake.
Better get back to looking for the tampon that is in someone’s arse crack or the dark web of my handbag.
Until next time,
~S & her vagina xo