1. The hormones. I am angelic right now. Yes, you can have my firstborn, my car and my inheritance. I will become demonic, however, when you ask to borrow my pen. I have o-estrogen. Deal with it.
2. That time of the month. Everything, from inhaling 67 bars of chocolates to murdering babies, can be attributed to PMS. That time of the month is the year-long pass that you have to being a complete beast.
3. The lack of physical boundaries. I do not appreciate you being five millimeters away from me while you regale me with your story of how your dentist tells you that your halitosis is incurable. I WILL bludgeon you if you give me another hug that squashes both of our delicate.
4. The apparent helplessness. Look at me. I’m as fragile as the first rosebud of spring. I do not know how to print documents from a word file, I’m not strong enough to pick up my coffee cup or smart enough to slice bread. Doesn’t that rouse up all your primitive caveman instincts to come protect me?
5. The feelings. I am a beating heart that feels and a delicate soul that is sensitive to all of my surroundings. I will reinforce that fact over and over again by bursting into helpless tears at the sight of an old man on the road, little babies in the park, flowers, burnt popcorn, the color pink, sappy film endings and washing liquid not being drained properly in the dishwasher.
6. The talking. Let’s talk. It’s four thirty in the morning but I think my boyfriend’s voice inflection on our forty-third call wasn’t quite right. Please help me figure this out. Let me take you through all previous forty-two calls first. Your cat just gave birth to stillborn kittens, don’t bottle up your feelings, let’s talk. I think my third fingernail just chipped. Let’s talk.
7. The constant need to be reassured. Do I look fat? Do I look thin? Is my hair alright? Does he love me? Does he love my mother? I raise six kids, work three jobs, support my great grand-uncle, do you think I am awesome enough? Are you sure? Are you? Really? No, really?
8. The motherhood. I gave birth. I will now have a saintly halo hovering over my head forever. No, you cannot judge me. I gave birth to you. What do you mean you can’t listen to my criticism of all your life choices, all the time?
9. The sisterhood. I will borrow your clothes, shoes, books, friends, boyfriends, underwear. What do you mean I have to ask you, at least? I will claw your face out if I have a fight with my third best friend because you’re my resident punching bag. I will claw anyone else’s face off, however, if they say anything about you.
10. The womanhood. Mother earth has tied us all into a single spiritual being because of our collective sorrows and pains. While we’re at it let’s bitch each other out, take any and every opportunity to destroy each others’ lives, steal husbands, beauticians, tailors and make sure that mother earth writhes in agony every second of her womanly existence.
2. That time of the month. Everything, from inhaling 67 bars of chocolates to murdering babies, can be attributed to PMS. That time of the month is the year-long pass that you have to being a complete beast.
3. The lack of physical boundaries. I do not appreciate you being five millimeters away from me while you regale me with your story of how your dentist tells you that your halitosis is incurable. I WILL bludgeon you if you give me another hug that squashes both of our delicate.
4. The apparent helplessness. Look at me. I’m as fragile as the first rosebud of spring. I do not know how to print documents from a word file, I’m not strong enough to pick up my coffee cup or smart enough to slice bread. Doesn’t that rouse up all your primitive caveman instincts to come protect me?
5. The feelings. I am a beating heart that feels and a delicate soul that is sensitive to all of my surroundings. I will reinforce that fact over and over again by bursting into helpless tears at the sight of an old man on the road, little babies in the park, flowers, burnt popcorn, the color pink, sappy film endings and washing liquid not being drained properly in the dishwasher.
6. The talking. Let’s talk. It’s four thirty in the morning but I think my boyfriend’s voice inflection on our forty-third call wasn’t quite right. Please help me figure this out. Let me take you through all previous forty-two calls first. Your cat just gave birth to stillborn kittens, don’t bottle up your feelings, let’s talk. I think my third fingernail just chipped. Let’s talk.
7. The constant need to be reassured. Do I look fat? Do I look thin? Is my hair alright? Does he love me? Does he love my mother? I raise six kids, work three jobs, support my great grand-uncle, do you think I am awesome enough? Are you sure? Are you? Really? No, really?
8. The motherhood. I gave birth. I will now have a saintly halo hovering over my head forever. No, you cannot judge me. I gave birth to you. What do you mean you can’t listen to my criticism of all your life choices, all the time?
9. The sisterhood. I will borrow your clothes, shoes, books, friends, boyfriends, underwear. What do you mean I have to ask you, at least? I will claw your face out if I have a fight with my third best friend because you’re my resident punching bag. I will claw anyone else’s face off, however, if they say anything about you.
10. The womanhood. Mother earth has tied us all into a single spiritual being because of our collective sorrows and pains. While we’re at it let’s bitch each other out, take any and every opportunity to destroy each others’ lives, steal husbands, beauticians, tailors and make sure that mother earth writhes in agony every second of her womanly existence.
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