Monthlies

“I HATE YOU!”

“You don’t understand!”

“Why does this happen to me?”

“My ovaries are killing me!!!!”

Yes, yes, yes! It does happen to us! It’s the worst thing in the history to happen to us. Period (I’m not even joking). Now, I’m going to sum you up as to why it is important for you to behave around a woman during that time of the month. Thing is that this is the deadliest period… almost a test. IF you do all the right things at the right time… think about it, there is still the rest of the month to be on her good side *arm nudge*.

If you skip this article, *feminist scream* typical man! That is just so typical of you to ignore how we feel! But if you haven’t, *flirtatious grin* hello, handsome ;) …

I understand, it is an uncomfortable topic, but then again, you have to face it, you do expect to be married, or have a girlfriend. If you’re gay, chances are you have a mother/ sister/ neurotic best friend. You cannot escape the feminine monthlies. No! That just does not happen. So read on, don’t be selfish.

Cramps. I HATE them, and every woman just hates (emphasis on hate), HATES them. I don’t know, but it is terrible, you know, having my left side ovaries attacking my right side ovaries, hosting that internal war and damaging my body in turn. Sitting hurts, laying down hurts, standing hurts, laying on my back hurts more. EVERYTHING HURTS! So, if you are calling, and I don’t pick up your call, it is because I am busy. Busy not being able to move because of these damned cramps. My lower belly IS Mordor. There is not a place more deadly in the whole of the Middle Earth.

If you see me walk past you with a ginormous box of chocolates/ chocolate ice cream, (pro-tip), pretend you haven’t seen it. No, seriously. Unsee it. I am not a sugar chugging beast- chocolate understands me, satisfies my needs, doesn’t judge me, and loves me unconditionally. I remember I had this T-shirt with a gingerbread man drawn on it, and it said, “The perfect man, good to smell, sweet to eat, and if he gives you any grief, BITE HIS HEAD OFF”. I used to wear that t-shirt around on the second day. We need chocolate, it’s like, our kryptonite. And yes, you can shower me with all the chocolate you want, and I promise I’ll marry you!

Hormones, seriously? Okay, God, Mother Nature, whoever you are… WHY you do this? Why is it that around that time of the month, I have a sudden urge to get romantic while I’m on the murdering rampage? Seriously, is necrophilia a woman’s thing? I’m not even sure. It’s like, I hate men, but I won’t mind kissing one. I hate what a man has to say, but I’d love to hear a dirty joke in a male voice… Not every man can be Wolverine! Please! Stop giving me unrealistic expectations, I have suffered enough pain (pun intended)!

Now, boys, here’s an insider’s secret, if you don’t know what wings are…. Die. Please. Thing is, if you’re living with me, I’ll be in enough pain to not only not move, but also in too much pain to go get myself a pad. So, chances are, you would have to get one for a woman (not just me, but any woman) at some point of your life. And it is IMPORTANT to know which one she wears. You have to know the right one, there’s no getting round this one. You must. Treat it like your fundamental duty. And DO it!

Bleeding. This isn’t exactly the worst thing, but it is true. We bleed. For five days. We don’t die. We’re Jesus, we’re saviors… who want to kill you. Anyway, I hate this part the most. I sleep night one, wake up day two, look at my white sheets, and find a flag of Japan. Worst is shower. I go in there, warm water, calming my ovaries, calming the pain, taming the beast within (that sounds almost sexy, wow), and right after that, the race to get dry and get dressed begins. I don’t want a bloody blood stain on my legs! White pants don’t get work because of these. I ruined so many of my salwars because of them. And it feels bad. I had this medical condition, I bled more than an average girl, now it is somewhat normal for initial periods to be like that… I used to cry a lot. Having my uniform ruined, having my dress for my cousin’s wedding ruined, and having my favorite bed sheet ruined… it felt so horrible. It’s not even about the dress, it’s about that I’m bleeding, it hurts, and I can’t do anything about it.

God, things I’ll do for a snickers bar right now. So boys, if you find yourself in a conflict, the worst thing to say is, “are you on your period?” because it’s not even remotely funny. I’m serious as hell, I’ll kill you till you die. And then respawn you, and kill you again. Keep calm, and wait for the end of the scarlet tide. I promise I’ll be good. ;)

Tuberose

A vase at the center of the dining table. Empty. Waiting. The sound from the kitchen microwave. Three beeps. Another sound the of the door clicking open. A shutting sound following. A shadow taking the dish plate in one of the rooms. Inside that room there's a half eaten apple, and some crumpled up paper in the waste basket. A teenager at work. Sounds of surface of pencil rubbing against paper. The wall behind him is covered with caricatures drawn in pencil, some in felt. He doesn't know. He's just a kid.

The doorbell rings. He rushes up to the door, half rubbing the sweat off the fingers. He opens the door to a taller but gentler figure who hugs him. She's carrying a humble bundle of it all... groceries, condiments, things that everyone likes, and the little things that she likes. The young eyes scan the bag of condiments. He searches for bourbon biscuits like James Bond looking for war plans in a Soviet state. The mother only smiled and went to the kitchen.

You need to be careful with these, and make sure to cut just the right length. She has a pair of scissors in her hand, but her face bears an unsure frown. She goes to the table. Sounds of frisking the bag of groceries go on. She caresses his head as he smiles upon finding chocolates. Don't eat all at once- she said. Then she went back to the kitchen with the vase, while the excited kid runs back to the kitchen with the treats.

She measures the length of the stem against the length of the vase and after some quite sure approximations, she cuts it off. She fills the vase with water, and arranges them in a desirable fashion. She likes the smell of them, the color of them... She likes the fact that they need only a little bit of love to live long. And that she can love them long enough.

She places them on the table, and takes the bag of groceries to the kitchen. The little one is lending a helping hand.

A vase at the center of the dining table. With tuberose flowers, and fresh water.

-Neetzi