My body is, at this point in time, gearing up for what can only be referred to as a Superperiod...
The Superperiod is one of the most deadly natural events known to Man... Specifically to Man.
You left the seat up again, you fool! You've doomed us all!
A little anatomy lesson for those who don't believe me:
Within the production of a Superperiod, a female's body goes through a confusing series of events.
First, she becomes enormously fat. Her uterus is convinced its time has finally come, and preps her for being pregnant by making her look fucking pregnant.
Add in combination an eruption of acne she hasn't experienced since she first hit puberty. Now she's even more hideous. I'm not a history buff, but I'm pretty sure right after God cursed Woman with the period, he felt bad and invented make-up.
She just wants to wear her glasses, avoid people (who will laugh at her for being hideous those pricks), put on pants without a waistband and eat pickles out of the jar, because deep in her belly her uterus is demanding a continual sacrifice of potato chips and brownies like an obese Mayan deity.
There's no arguing with this creature. She's up in the middle of the night fashioning together makeshift garlic bread by the shameful green glow of the microwave, and it can't be avoided. All you Men can do is pretend not to see and let her simmer in her own self-hatred.
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Confusingly, while the tangle of hormones in her body has combined to make her as unattractive as humanly possible, somewhere there's an instinct that drops with the egg screaming BREED BREED! '
She will want to have sex with everyone. Everyone.
It's like beer goggles for your reproductive parts. Suddenly, everyone is gorgeous and probably her Future Husband.
That greased up 40 year-old guido in the volkswagon? Future Husband.
The fat guy in the deli ""sampling" every single cold meat? Future Husband.
That dude walking in front of her with the ponytail? Oh no, wait, that's a chick.
I wouldn't kick him out of bed...
I won't even mention the mood swings, I think we all know the real dangers of the Superperiod. Beware, gentlemen. She'll sex the shit out of you and while you're climaxing she'll chew right through your spinal column, Praying Mantis-style, because you told her six weeks ago that you thought Jennifer Aniston was pretty.
Why don't you go fuck JENNIFER ANISTON YOU FUCKING PIECE OF CRAP?? My mother was right about you.
And then, she'll cry and ask you to hold her.
It won't make sense. Don't try to make sense of it.
I had mentioned previously the very young guy that managed to stalk me down and ask for my number. I had given it to him, agreed to go out, and had a sudden rush of Ick that made me a little ill and thus provided an excuse to not go.
Unfortunately, for work, I still had to go to his place of employment. I hadn't expected to run into him on a regular basis. Things have changed. Shit got serious.
I steeled myself. I would just go out with him and act horrible. I would sabotage the date. I would talk about my many cats, and my Pinterest wedding, and how many children I wanted, and who were his grandparents so I could incorporate our families in their names?
That way, the next time I had to see him, he'd do the polite thing and hide in the back room for an hour.
However, when I went in there, pimpy and grotesque and about three inches away from bitch-slapping the people standing next to me for breathing (not heavily, just breathing)... I realized I had forgotten how attractive he was. Wow.
And not openly off-put by my horrible state. Still interested even though I'm stuffing gummi worms into my mouth- directly from my purse? Color me flattered.
Chemical changes. Brain waves. A gentle but persistent persuasion from the nether regions. SCIENCE!
Then this happened:
So, yeah. Ahem. I embark upon another dating... experiment.
The Younger Man.
This should be interesting.
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