M.C. Menses

Diesel Sweeties has this t-shirt I want. It says "My name is M.C. Menses and my flow be fresh." Red shirt. White letters.

My cycle just went haywire this time around. To make myself chill, I checked out possible problems on the internet, which never makes me relax, but oddly, this time it did. For one thing, I've never felt the need to beg a doctor to remove my uterus.

But I came across this sort of poll: If you safely could would you get rid of your period? (Assuming you could turn it magically back on to have babies and such). Not with pills or shots, but like magic-wand-POOF. Never again.

Despite my raging PMS and indefatiguable cramps, I have to admit when I read this my immediate, visceral answer was, "Absolutely not."

Do I enjoy my period? No. There are a lot of things about it that are a wicked nuisance. But I found myself considering the description I wrote for why the goblins like Kyerick: "They also admired his scars and said any man who went on like that was weathered."

Weathered is how I feel about my menses:I can take it and that's important. I can handle the tree-root-growing-in-my-abdomen-cramps. I can handle grab-me-by-the-throat crying jags. I can handle tampons. I can handle pads. I can handle whatever the hell riot my digestive system decides to stage in solidarity with my uterus. Back aches, hydrogen peroxide, clots, temper--I can handle all of it. I am a goddess with my feet on the earth, terrible and wonderful and fertile as a field.

Just don't fuck with me while I'm handling it, 'kay?