Sunday, June 19, 2011

The Angels Singing

Imagine, if you will. Imagine a force so powerful, it has the ability to shift the totality of your every microcellular vibration 180 degrees in a split second; from inside to outside to upside to downside to right-side up; from backwards to forwards, from frazzled to peacin’ out, from insomniac to sleepin-like-a-baby, from screamin bitch to sighing smiling happyface, for the skies have opened and rays of light like tendrils of god’s ET finger light-beams are shining down upon you! Imagine this moment of utter physio-energetic transformation that happens in an unseen instant; how it creeps around the corner and suddenly and quietly pours hot fudge sauce all over your life, (or at least upon your outlook.) And all of a sudden you’re like Oooooooooooohhhh you are swimming in the silkiest fudge sauce ever known to man, even European ones, while whipped cream clouds drift lazily by and cherries fall gently like dew drops from the heavens. What is this moment to which I refer? I’ll tell you what. I just got my period, beeoitches, and the angels are singing!!! All at once, I am floating on an endorphin laced magic carpet ride barely touching the treetops of reality and the world is all celebration. There’s a refreshing breeze in the air, the stars twinkle inside my heart-heart like a million fireflies come to life from inside. Simultaneously, I feel the insistence of earth power pulling down, down through my womb through my legs and feet, tension pouring out of my ether, releasing with the blood to fertilize the earth, unburden my soul, and I am free! I am free! Thank god almighty, I’m free at last!

But lets back up a bit. There is no greater hell than PMS. PMS should stand for something meaningful like ‘Please Massage this Sister’. Or ‘Puffed up Manic and Stinky’; or, ‘Possible Murder Suspect’. Or ‘Please Manifest Sex’. All of the nasty with all of the needy, colliding in one body, mine, yours, with a great array of un-delightful and specific physical symptoms, say, swollen tender breasts, or a migraine, perhaps? How about some searing low back pain, sore feet, an aching, sad heart, chronic resentment, manic mean lust, ridiculous cravings, insomnia, or persistent anxiety? Perhaps just aching teeth, skin eruptions and eczema, night sweats, weird dreams, hot flashes, the impulse to shove everything you see into your mouth, or a soul tearing massive crying fit to break up the mundaneness of never ending exhaustion, exhaustion, exhaustion.

Do you know what? I deserve a fucking medal every month for enduring 5-10 days of this miserable crescendo without killing or hurting anybody while other people are skipping down the street, whistling dixie. “Is it really that bad?” you may wonder. Fucking YES!! Who knew how bestial we all are, how controlled by biological cycles? When one minute I can be entwined and entangled in the slowest, most unbearable web of I-hate-everyone-and-everything-and-I’m-sick-and-tired-of-it-all, and in the next second, literally, I am the essence of god’s glory, the mist on an angels’ eyelash, and earth-godess-mama drawing all of life to her bosom’s embrace, well, then something whack is going on. Yea, it’s nature folks, doing its finest work, so fuck you, nature.

And so why bother with culture at all? When in the end of the day, I am but a moaning, bloated cow, desperate for some burly farmer’s hand-action, why do any other kind of posturing? I’ll tell you why. For the sake of your children. For public safety-- law and order. For traffic calming and reasonable driving behaviour on America’s highways. For God Save the Queen. For decorum or civility of any sort. For table manners. For sidewalks free of spit. For the pledge of allegiance, and church going grannies. For making it through the workday with your bra still hooked.

Ladies! We must, against our every peri-menopausal and pre-menstrual demolition engineer instinct, control ourselves. We must, as I do, harness all our self discipline, and reign it in, using all the underwire, willpower, masturbation and chocolate necessary. We must endure until that pivotal moment when the entire universe reverses itself with one smooth turn on its axis of evil and the blood comes flowing (out of us, not them), releasing flocks of doves in a ruffle of wings and choir robes as cherubs break out into a bombastic, celebratory anthem, just for us.

God knows, there would be absolute mayem otherwise.


  1. ha...i'm joining this blog, dear friend. And lucky me...I had to have a hysterectomy last year. So nah nah more crazy for me...and yes, you can be jealous for that. :)

  2. ps...mine,