megfowler.com

It’s that time again, isn’t it, you crazy bastards.

Not that time.

But this time. The current time.

(Time, time time… see what’s become of me?)

This is the time when you wreak havoc on my entire system.

The time when you overheat me like a tiny blast furnace. The time when you make my head feel as though someone bludgeoned my temples with a meat tenderizer for an hour while I slept. The time when you make everything I normally enjoy eating appear radically unappetizing. The time when you cause me to turn bright red like a Japanese lantern bobbling from a wire. The time when my skin appears to develop multiple personalities, all of which hate me.

Oh, yes. The time.

Let me be honest with you, hormones: ANY TIME YOU WANT TO, LIKE, CHILL OUT?

WOULD BE AWESOME. SERIOUSLY.

Now, I know that you’re trying to return my 96 year-old, cane-using, Depends-wearing, World War Two-remembering, support hose-buying, prune-eating hormones into their normal 33-year old bouncy, baby-possible, barefoot selves. I do appreciate your efforts.

It’s just that the whole process has left me wrung out like a cheap dishrag more times than I can count.

But there’s something about a quadrupled cancer risk and tumbleweeds in my ovaries that keeps me hangin’ on.

Still.

Hormones.

Really. We could be a bit more sunny about this.

And I don’t mean making me FEEL LIKE I AM SITTING ON THE SURFACE OF THE SUN.

I’m just saying.

Love,

Meg