LOVE IS A CHRONIC CONDITION
My IBS is Totally Cramping My Period Enjoyment
You either die a hero or live long enough to see the monthly destruction of your butthole and street cred
T̶o̶,̶ ̶
M̶y̶ ̶S̶w̶e̶e̶t̶,̶
Dearest Period Stalking IBS,
I love you, but I’m not in love with you
Remember our meet-cute during that fateful recess in 8th grade? Miss Hofstadter had just announced that we were way too large to still be using the PE scooters, especially in light of the recent finger incidents. Such a simple moment, and one that you did not waste. I was trying to relish the humiliating moment of getting my first period at school when you randomly vacuum-sealed my anus shut until I almost passed out.
I respect that! I just don’t respect you.
It’s not me, it’s you
How many times are we to do this special little dance? I sit in a public bathroom, trying to extradite my Diva Cup from my love box, and you devastate me with such a soul-wrenching IBS cramp that I beg the old gods and the new for sweet release from this mortal coil. “C’mon, baby,” You say as I cling to the clammy stall walls, “Baby, that’s not the real me, baby! You know me!”
You may be an asshole, but you’re a real asshole.
We’re just on two different paths right now
Let me put it this way: I’m a human woman who is perfect apart from her IBS and host of mental illnesses, and you’re a literal pain in my ass! I’ve learned a lot about myself recently, like how much I enjoy dancing alone in my living room or the smell of asphalt in the rain. I also like keeping pace with my friends when we’re out walking, at least until you make me do the full arched-back tip-toe shuffle.
Well, they say you either die a hero or live long enough to see the monthly destruction of your butthole and street cred.
I think we should see other people
I’m already doing this. You know him, actually. We’ve been dating for three years and I think we’re ready to take it to the next step: full anal. How could I show my face in public again if you clamped down on his disco stick like a vengeful finger trap? Ugh, fine. You want the truth?
I don’t want to end up on “Sex Sent Me to the ER.” I’ve seen those reenactments and the actors look nothing like who they’re portraying, okay!?
Who knows what the future holds?
Maybe we get back together! Maybe in 10, 20, or 70 years, when I don’t even have a period anymore but my pelvic floor checks out and I need something, please god anything, to hold back the incontinence. Maybe we’ll run into each other in Paris. Maybe we’ll get coffee at a cute little bistro and go for a stroll along the Seine, where the espresso will compromise both my IBS and womanly reputation. Maybe we’ll handle it with grace and imagine what could have been… Maybe.
L̶o̶v̶e̶,̶ ̶
R̶e̶g̶a̶r̶d̶s̶,̶
Cheers,
Sabrina
