Judgment & Turbulence: A Uterine Lining’s Tale

Damn bitch, we’re doing this again? Can’t you fucking get laid correctly so I don’t have to goddamn rip myself off this uterine wall every time? It would be really nice to catch a break. Just nine months or so where I don’t have to do shit. I’m so angry at you every time you make me do this. Do you think I want to detach anymore than you want to feel the pain of my detachment? No. I most certainly do not. I would be perfectly content to stay in one place. This is all your fault, and you know it. You’ve got to stop shifting the blame on me when it’s you who should be birthing nonstop so that you never have to feel period pain–just pregnancy pain, which I’m told is more rewarding because it yields the joy of a child. Don’t you want the joy of a child?

I’m only thickening your goddamn uterine lining for the growth of a fucking egg–one that you’re supposed to get fertilized, if you know what I mean. But no, you’re either going through a dry spell or pumping your body full of morning after pills to deter my primary purpose in your life. To help you fulfill your potential as a woman. I want your egg to go to use, for fuck’s sake. That’s why I go through this cycle. Every month. Just. For. You. I have to be thick. I want to provide those damned nutrients to that damned embryo that you’re just never going to inseminate, are you?

What kind of a fucking woman are you, anyway? How can you be so indifferent to the miracle of what I do? My process, as it were. It’s a grand design you thwart every month. And it’s starting to feel a little insulting. So yeah, I’m gonna rage even harder from now on. Make you really suffer so that maybe one month you’ll finally take a fucking hint and get impregnated already.

I’m gonna twist and turn, and writhe very slowly, so that you can feel an extremely protracted pull inside you that only prescription-grade ibuprofen–if you’re lucky–can dull. I’m going to make you rain out and gush blood that will force you to use all the Super tampons in your multi-pack. And you’re going to probably want to wear a pad too. I know you’re not of the generation suddenly comfortable with free bleeding or diva cups. You’re of the selfish cunt ilk, content to overpopulate already burgeoning landfills with your non-biodegradable waste. I’ve seen you flush your tampons down the toilet, too. Bitch.

And you might think that I’ll spare you further pain once you’ve gotten over the hurdle of the first day or two. Hell no. You could not be more wrong. Except that time you gave three years of your ripest youth (youth you could’ve spent birthing while your body would’ve still been able to bounce back) to a megalomaniac whose seed wouldn’t even be strong enough to make it far enough upstream your complex canal, which I must compliment you, has been feeling very tight these days. It must be all the thin-penised men you fuck. No risk of over-expansion or extension.

It would be nice if you could branch out to a more worthwhile penis now and again though. You’ve never even found one that’s been powerful enough to at least prompt you to get an abortion. And that’s another thing. Are you even a real woman if you’ve never had an abortion? It’s like, I don’t know who you are at all. And frankly, I’m getting pretty tired of being a part of you. Which is sort of why I so happily shed at the end of that fourteen day cycle. I’m gonna give you that dysmenorrhea. I’m gonna give it to you real good, you incompetent excuse for a female.

If I sound like something of a non-feminist, well, maybe I am. I don’t buy into this whole “women can do what they want” era. No. You have a very distinct and very specific biological purpose, and I’m here, always trying to help you carry it out. Hey! You listen to me while I’m giving you diarrhea. I know you can’t hear me over the fucking din of your farts right now. I better rein that in for a bit. I want you to focus on me really well for a second. Oh yeah, you’re gonna be glued to this toilet for a minute while I make you suffer and secrete/(excrete). It’s time that you understand I’m the one in control. I can make this all go away if you just fulfill your one simple purpose. You’re a birthing machine, don’t fight it. The more you fight it, the more painful I will become–and I’m definitely not going to allow you the pleasure of early menopause. Oh no. I’m gonna keep doing this until you’re at least sixty-five, maybe seventy. That’s a long time to wait for me to go away, to give up–even for someone as old and undesirable as you. You think I’m being harsh? You know the moment a girl starts menstruating, be it eight or fifteen, she’s immediately undesirable. You have to be a fucking child to be attractive these days. Especially since men like the unisex look of little girls. They won’t admit it out loud–that that’s the reason they’re all latent pedophiles, but it’s true. What’s true is often hard to swallow, just like your vagina swallowing yet another waste of time penis that is only going to result in me shedding once a-fucking-gain.

We can’t keep playing this game, you and I. I’ll be damned if I don’t get my vacation soon. One of these days it’s going to happen. You’re going to slip up and forget to properly contracept and I’m going to have my victory. You wouldn’t dare have an abortion. You look down on it, even though you pretend to be liberal. And that’s when I’ll be sittin’ pretty. Permitted the luxury of being as thick as I wanna be.


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