Auntie Flo, where'd you go?!

Unless you are like my brother, who upon discovering the existence of sanitary napkins was told that women use these uner their arms because they sweat more profusely than men, then you're probably aware of the existence of menses. Perhaps you have menses or you have a loved one who regularly experiences the menses. Mayhap you were accused of being a menses in primary school - I don't know, and it's not relevant. Bring not your painful childhood memories to me! That's what Jesus and Prozac are for. Here's today's blog.

Men seem to think that the menses only means two things:

One - extra-hours at the office a week for them the week before their partner starts bleeding like a I dunno, bleeder or something. An amnesiac or whatchacallit.

Two - definately no sex for a week, unless you like that sort of thing. Which is a very scary thing, no matter how much you twist or turn or salt it. Techincally, you might want to try sugar though. And duct-tape. Duct-tape takes care of any problem, I'm pretty sure this also means culinary ones.

But the fact is that there's so much more to it- the menses I mean - so many hidden depths that we the women have to grapple with. So come walk a mile in my pantysheild, learn something about what it means to be a woman, or effeminate at best. Someone with pantysheild, whatever, a rose is still a rose and all that.

SOME CALL IT a blessing in disguise. And, well yes. Menses means that you are not pregnant. Yet. But it also means that hypochondriac-you just threw away a hundred crowns on a pregnancy test yesterday. Not that I ever am pregnant, or have been - lately - but if I’m ever a day late, then it means that the brussels-sprouts I ran out to buy the day before aren’t s sign of that I just like brussels-sprouts, or that I have a slight inclination toward brussels-sprouts, but that I’m pregnant. Pregnant like you wouldn’t believe. And this bloating? No way that menses collecting, that’s the baby. Maybe four. And multiplying, for such is the way of the woman-spawn.

Now the thing is that this will never happen. At least not now - Andreas and I use so much protection that sperm never really had chance. They’ll be all swimming for their dear lives (like swimswimswim! - in peeping voices) thinking that this is what they’ve been waiting for, it’s finally their turn, woohoo, here we go boys, to find themselves rocketted back to wherever they came from by a rubber ceiling. And if it’s not that, then it’s the spermicidal. You had like two seconds of freedom, a lifetime’s worth of dreams, you were going to be a dentist dammit!, and now you must DIE. DIEDIEDIE. Look at you all dead, in a pool man-juice.

Which brings us back to woman-juice. Or rather woman non-juice, of the more solid state. For some reason, at least for me, the menses increases my bowel-movement. I'm sure that this whole bowel thing is good for the body, but bad for the hypochondriac. Because if you’re like my...friend, say Andreas, you have the menses AND good bowel-movement simultaneuosly, and are in the habit of check the toilet paper to make sure you won’t later be dirtying your pants, then this ritual always comes with the short pang of fear that you have Ebola, before you remember, no, haha, that's not ebola. That's the Menses! You don't even live in Ebola country....or Do you?

And as if the pregnancy and terminal disease scare aren't enough, there's always the post-menstrual shock that you're not bloated anymore, you're just fat. You thought the brussels-sprouts would help your diet, but how wrong you were.

Me, I still got two more days left. Two days of no sex and aspirations of thinness. Here's to hoping that I'll survive, and that you won't think that menses is part of a world-wide vendetta to leave men emasculated and fussy. Or maybe you should, just to keep you on your toes.

Mmmmm. Toes.

Very angry, (non) expletive and caps-lock filled blog.

"Enligt advokaten erkänner flickan dådet, men säger att hon inte vill straffas med fängelse. Istället hävdar hon att hon behöver vård.
- Hon mår så dåligt att hon egentligen borde vara någon annanstans, säger advokaten."
- Expressen, 050422

Oh, and the boyfriend didn't want to come to the initial hearings either - because even he felt 'bad'.

Now, I don't use the blog to express anger too often, but whoop, here it is. Something that never, NEVER ceases to amaze or anger me EEmensily is the fact that Swedish papers seldom print an article about a confessed murderer without adding that the perpetrator is quoted as saying that he/she'feels really bad.'

No no no - not Michael Jackson's groin-twitching 80's "Bad", and not bad like after "Bad". Nor is it the pain of getting bopped over the head with a hammer or having your gut sliced open-several times, or having been repeatedly raped and left for dead, but then got up, because, you know. You felt really bad.

Frankly, honestly, when it comes right down to it, I don't beleive in an eye for an eye, neither do I beleive in everyone being sent off to the psych-ward because they FELT BADLY about having to go to jail. It does NOT take a brain sceintist, heck not even a toothpick, to know that Killing is BAD, Killing is wrong, Killing is criminal. Grow up, wipe your nose, and off with you to a maximum security prison where you pretty much get what you deserve. Yes you know what I mean - when you turn on your private TV, the only channels that are on are PUBLIC SERVICE BROADCASTING. And, oh - dropping the soap. No, my non-friend, regretful murderer, I hope that you drop that soap many, many times. Heck, I hope you get liquid soap. How's THAT for a freaking challenge.

So Hey you who has or will commit crime and then claim that you can't go to a regular prison because you're feeling bad, but winds up under maximum security anyway - you had better pray to God, Buddha, or the great motherpatooting Gaia for the day when you get the chance to go complaining to the warden about the HAIR you found in your dinner the other day and how much this has affected you psychologically.

The HUMANITY.

How maybe if even you weren't feeling bad enough about ramming a hammer in your mother's head - then maybe this can be seen as the proverbial straw that broke the camels back and could you please be transferred to a place with MTV and anti-depressants, please.

Oh Fudge.

Good Night Moonface.

Here's to the one I love. He's not the living undead, he's just asleep.

Him being asleep is usually the best time of the evening. If he’s not he’s singing to himself in his sleep, he’s thrown off the covers exposing his bum like a smorgasbord of skin. He instinctively wraps his arm around me when I creep into bed, and uses his free hand to knead my head like it was a piece of hard dough. And when I laugh at all these - his sleep activities, he either asks if I’m jiggling because I’m cold, or laughs with me, without really knowing anything except that he’s having fun. I know I am.

And there you go: I've officially become a Girl-Friend. If anyone sees me shopping for flowered curtains in the near future, mercy-kill me with a baking sheet.