“If your period was a person…”.
That’s the title of the video, and already my critical brain’s off to the races and wondering “Is that meant to be ‘If your period were a person’?” Knowing that fact about the overactive neurotic spinning top that lives in the attic of my body (and then coupling that with the reality that a fourth of every month there’s an added hormonal DSM-level break from reality), I’ve come to a conclusion.
If this is the worst this chick’s anthropomorphized sanguine psychosis is… she has it pretty effing good.
I wish mine were (yes, we’re going with ‘were’; #sorrynotsorry) just a sassy black lady who over-snacks. But mine’s more like… this loquacious, schizophrenic entity. And, sure, it’s got the sassy black lady’s head. But it’s also got sassy gay friend’s, anorexic bitch’s, fat callous downer’s, frazzle haired hippie’s, and the dome of every ex I’ve ever claimed as worthy of monogamy – spouting painful unaddressed truths on repeat. To my credit (or theirs’, really – our ours mutually; who knows) though, zero point zero of those exes would’ve ever done the thing that pussy boyfriend did on the couch and ran away. I might have (run away, that is), but it’s always nice to know that you spend the other 23 days of your life exuding enough awesomery from your pores that homie wanna pour sugar on ya even when you’re exuding goo. (Too far? Too bad.)
Maybe that’s ’cause it’s more ingrained for me. A part of my personality I try in vain to relinquish. So, instead of Jeckyll-Hyde-ing it for a weeklong holiday away from normalcy, there’s no real sane baseline to start with. You either love me enough despite it to stick around – or ya pack up your satchel ‘n hit the tracks after we shake hands and I immediately start explaining how my shih-tzu has telepathy. Monthly or not, that Vishnu-esque period party monster’s never too far away – even when I’m coasting over my weeks of dry land. Something that massive never truly rolls out. When it’s not actually staging a uteral B’nE, it’s plotting the next one. Stalking me. Sitting quietly in the corridor. Or perched on the limb of an outside tree, silently counting the minutes while eating my last pack of dried tart cherries.
Just sayin’ – me ‘n my coven of women kind may all have it bad.
But my bad bitch’s luggage wouldn’t’ve fit on that little zippered wheely sac.
It would’ve needed its own Boeing to get here.