Lately I have been walking this line in between complete happiness and complete moroseness. These are things I should not be writing about today as it is the first day I spout a red river of hell from regions beyond. But anyways, yes, I really feel like men should have to experience the humility behind knowing that you could be sitting in chair discussing the weather, politics or what you plan on having for dinner all while feeling as though you have a drainpipe dripping into your underwear. It really isn’t a pleasant experience and I of course am especially bitter about it, given that my period is most literally useless, and something that is there just to remind me of how useless my uterus is at least once a month for the next 30 years. Sure, we get the longer life span, at least statistically, but what good does that do when you spend 12 weeks a year, what amounts to be one year after four bleeding into various feminine hygiene products for no apparent reason. For me, this means most likely these coming years will be cool except for the seven plus I will be bleeding, or menstruating as they say.  I think the math probably works out more in the male favor to get those years cut off…but who am I to judge?

I’ve been gaining weight, I suppose. Eating ice cream always helps and the potato chips dipped in Sabra hummus is a sick treat as well. I now weigh a sleek 129, which is only 15 off from what I weighed this time last year. For some strange reason the photographers keep contacting me to shoot, and I keep responding with, sorry, I just had heart surgery, you probably don’t want to take pictures of me at this time. This is usually followed by a ohh, sorry, we can take pictures of your face. My face is the only thing I have been confident about for the past ten years. The years before that I was pretty ass ugly, but I do wish I could transfer my confidence with that to other parts of my body. I am all angles, no curves, bony hips, bony chest, bony butt bony legs. I am not what you would consider a great example of the female form.

Sometimes I wish I could import a friend again. I’ve done this on a few occasions. Like, a female friend that wouldn’t judge, someone I could respect and hang out with. Or two. Too bad the chicks my age are all married with babies and issues, and the girls younger than me aren’t anywhere near what I could relate to…