Once again it's a beautiful day. I'm feeling better, however, having moved on from a fever and extreme exhaustion to a headache and extreme exhaustion. I'm trying to drink more water and get more sleep to counteract this and maybe it will work.
Over breakfast someone made the mistake of asking me how I'm doing (serious this time) since I will never complain to them, and so they got a highly detailed account of my attempts to insert my menstrual cup this morning in spite of giving up on it last year upon finding out my uterus is also narcoleptic and is leaning up against my bladder, having a snooze, so tilted it should be sent to AA meetings, if only I could take it out.
(And I would, if anyone would let me. Because apparently no one wants to remove parts from a perfectly functioning somewhat healthy woman just because every period she has is the Shining elevator doors scene repeated for four days straight every month now, sometimes every second month because normal? Who the fuck needs to be normal?
I think Dalton was sorry he asked.
Caleb found it fascinating. I might know someone who can help you, he says. Of course he does. Why wouldn't he have a uterus expert on file. Or a heavy period specialist. What's he going to do, threaten it?
(I've tried that. It did nothing.)
I have three doc-, no four. I have four doctors already. But thank you.
Let's change the subject then. Dalton pleads with me.
Okay. Find those isograph drawing pens in this city.
Just get them on Amazon.
What the fuck? No. That's far too easy. I must drive around for two weeks searching for them before forgetting about them for another year.
Dalton rolls his eyes and looks at his phone. Conversation over, I guess.
Ordered. Caleb says.
I was JUST about to do that, Dalton laughs.
So I'm stuck home waiting for Amazon now.
May as well since you're bleeding out.
Did you order chocolate too?
Jesus Christ, Dalton says and they both whip out their phones again.
Over breakfast someone made the mistake of asking me how I'm doing (serious this time) since I will never complain to them, and so they got a highly detailed account of my attempts to insert my menstrual cup this morning in spite of giving up on it last year upon finding out my uterus is also narcoleptic and is leaning up against my bladder, having a snooze, so tilted it should be sent to AA meetings, if only I could take it out.
(And I would, if anyone would let me. Because apparently no one wants to remove parts from a perfectly functioning somewhat healthy woman just because every period she has is the Shining elevator doors scene repeated for four days straight every month now, sometimes every second month because normal? Who the fuck needs to be normal?
I think Dalton was sorry he asked.
Caleb found it fascinating. I might know someone who can help you, he says. Of course he does. Why wouldn't he have a uterus expert on file. Or a heavy period specialist. What's he going to do, threaten it?
(I've tried that. It did nothing.)
I have three doc-, no four. I have four doctors already. But thank you.
Let's change the subject then. Dalton pleads with me.
Okay. Find those isograph drawing pens in this city.
Just get them on Amazon.
What the fuck? No. That's far too easy. I must drive around for two weeks searching for them before forgetting about them for another year.
Dalton rolls his eyes and looks at his phone. Conversation over, I guess.
Ordered. Caleb says.
I was JUST about to do that, Dalton laughs.
So I'm stuck home waiting for Amazon now.
May as well since you're bleeding out.
Did you order chocolate too?
Jesus Christ, Dalton says and they both whip out their phones again.