Aunt Flo’s a-comin’ and all I got to show for it was this shitty blog post.

So I had a minor rant about periods on my Facebook page this morning, to which a male friend of mine replied by asking the ultimate male question, “are you okay?”

For a second that mildly irritable grouchiness women get when we’re asked this question crept up on me, but then I realized, what else could a guy possibly say?

For the past 50 years, feminists have made hormone fluctuations taboo to all discussion to such as extent that to this day, millions of women think there’s something wrong with them for experiencing them at all. In this environment, God help the male who lets on in the slightest that he can tell something is “off”. Better to be seen as dumb and harmless, asking stupid questions, than to risk a fight, right? b6e294aed0b343811248693a8d102bd1

Boom. Suddenly to me this little back and forth is like representative of what is wrong with so much of modern male/female interactions, and I felt like I had an opportunity to really illuminate some of the dark unpleasantness surrounding this issue.

Well that depends on who you ask:

The hippies who only eat organic would say this is all monsanto’s fault and if I ate a gluten free diet I’d never feel this way, but then suggest some essential oils to relieve my common monthly ailments.

The Paleo crossfit cultists would also blame monsanto and gluten, but also tell me burpees are the answer.

A doctor would deny monsanto and gluten are in any way a problem, threaten to drop me as a patient for asking about them, and then prescribe me five separate medications with 30 common side effects each and schedule me another appointment in two weeks to give me more pills for the side effects of the first pills that still aren’t helping anything.

3rd wave feminists would have already burned an effigy of you that wears a sign reading “rapist shitlord” for daring to ask me that question.

Quiverfull wives with their braided hair and jean jumpers wouldn’t have heard you, having already sequestered themselves in the “Hut of Shame” for the next ten days to avoid tainting their families with their womanly evil (and to catch up on the mending).

Business professional women would have pink slipped you, claiming a bad economy, in retaliation for reminding them they are, in fact, women at all.

Mommy Bloggers would cry soft tears as they write a soul searching 800 words about how their “time of the month” impacted their ability to fill the lives of their “littles” with happiness and sunshine.

And I’m over here way over answering this question because hormone fluctuations make me mouthy.

I’m fine. Wanting to commit mass murder and then cry about it is a perfectly normal part of the feminine experience. It’s like working out too hard so you’re so sore you can’t really move, and shooting up test so you’re crying for no reason in the locker room afterwards, but all rolled into one. With chocolate.


Did I add anything at all to modern relations between the sexes? That’s not up for me to say. I’m too busy gorging on my kids’ Halloween candy in a vain attempt to quell my murderous rage and/or ease the swelling in my feet to care. Somebody bring me some tacos.