I feel I've been quite forgiving with you recently.
I have not complained about bleeding, in greater or lesser amounts, for 41 days straight. I have said nothing about the Peek-a-Boo Game, where you seem to disappear for half a day at a time and then -- surprise! -- show up in my clean white panties. Nor have I said anything regarding the constant cramping or the intermittent desires to eat beef liver wrapped in broccoli and spinach. (For clarification purposes, it's the beef liver impulse that's the problem, as I normally like broccoli and spinach.)
Yesterday, however, was a bridge too far. Not the amount blood, but rather the stickiness of it -- or, as I prefer to call it, the Stretch Armstrong Factor. I mean, I get that when I empty my menstrual cup, some of it will get on my hands; I'm ready for that. What I'm not prepared for, however, is the blood that will:
- Stick to my hands. And the cup. And my crotch.
- Refused to be severed by toilet paper and/or my hand swiping at it.
- Vault itself forward from between my legs onto the floor of the bathroom stall and also my pants.
- I really liked those pants.
What I'm trying to say, uterus, is that if you make me choose between you and pants... well, I am pretty proud of my fallopian tube bling, yes, but I need pants.
Please consider this before you get all clingy and stringy in my crotch again.
The Person Who Could Sign the Hysterectomy Papers