Period Princess from “The Art of the Blog”
It’s that time again. How do I possibly know this? …That it gets awful bloody down there, though not really more so than in times past? My inverted volcano calls again for the pony express. It and I don the same fabric to keep me on board. It’s just the way it is. It’s telepathic, like when a girl knows the moment her best friend’s heart has been broken – even if she’s minutes or miles or countries or light years away. It’s erotic; it takes my control most willingly and devoid of any semblance of common courtesy. It’s Periodic, like the Aggravated Table of Elements arguing over the covalent cuisine at hand. I’ve felt this many times before, and will continue to feel it until I’m really old.
This is so much about me, and so it is so much about no one – I’m just another girl on her rag again for a while… just every other young lady on the planet, even while so much the mind of a foolish old man. So, I just get over it. Why am I so bitchy? Don’t ‘look’ at me. I want you instead to listen to me, and if you don’t, I’ll claw your eyes out then fuck your bloody face until our blood becomes one. Something out there must be the cause of the way that I feel, and whether or not a pin has dropped, my wrath you will know – even if you think you’re not to blame.
‘Down there,’ it starts, deep in the space that my hips guard so well. A little girl with pigtails is weeping because her wish didn’t come true this time. First one tear, then another…. Soon she is sobbing uncontrollably. I don’t know whether to scold her for being such a cry baby, especially over something that’s not even all that cool for now, or to put my forehead to hers in hopes of siphoning off some of her pain and discomfort. Such focus unbeknownst – each tear a little sponge from a huge hall of little sponges – each squeeze a little stab at me from within. What have I done so wrong? Why does nature prod me with such uncanny diligence?
“…An empty page that men will want to write on…?” Fuck that noise! Give me a break because I could surely use one today – surely in lieu of proximity to a blacker hole in the vastness of space. Any man brave enough to even think about pointing pen in the direction of this ‘empty page’ is in for a severe lesson in penmanship and a broke dick scribing implement upon graduation. No, I write on you, that is, if you’re worthy enough and man enough to interpret the message. Oops… Am I not supposed to talk like that, or even think that way? …Too un-ladylike? …Too unsanitary? Dear bastard of a bitch, we are all animals, because I feel so much like one today – one whose blessed blog accrues the audience of a stubborn stain.
My touch of red is the strike of a maxi-head match, and everything I strike turns to red. I turn toilets into bowls of Hawaiian punch as if by magic. I can wilt a sensitive nose like a death struck weed almost at will, yet I can still tenderize the principal’s heart with just a look. Surely I’m a super hero in some man’s world? Just let me use the lady’s room, Miss Fembarren. Screw your stupid boot camp mentality. You don’t remember what it’s like? “Modeling” has erased it from your concern? Perhaps you are the one who’s in school, and that it is I who have something to teach… or re-teach. All I need do is stand on your desk, face the class and open my legs upon your ‘plan.’ Class adjourned! …At least for a few hours….
I know it stinks down there. I’d be an idiot to pretend it doesn’t. There are things in life that just smell gross once in a while. Haven’t you ever taken a dog for a walk, for God’s sake? Is he not worth the same to you afterwards? Why do you treat me like I have bionic plague?
I know also – deep in the subconscious… or somewhere – that my stink is a driving force in nature. I may not know a whole lot, but I do notice how differently men and boys are hypnotized by the same chimney when its smoke is not present. For a trillionth of a trillionth of a trillionth of a second, an ‘acceleration’ of some kind takes place in their minds that my stink might be worth investigating – maybe a tribal call to know my ‘health’ for whatever purpose, be it passion or peace of mind. I know you’re an animal because I feel like one – from my face that grows tits faster than my chest, down to my paint weighted toenails, sensitive to the pressure of extra water beneath them. And, every once in a while, I can sense my ‘stink cup’ – like a prehensile third hand – snare a stray thought that may happen to meander by. On such a deep level, my animal tells me that my tribe is concerned, but I so want you to listen to me. I want to hear it back from you… something like a cheer would be nice – something worthwhile that I can include in my sacred, secret diary. Telepathy is fine with me, if you ‘prefer‘ not to speak out loud. I’m naturally proficient either way. My tongue is many.
But with all that goes on in this world that tells me that I am cursed far worse than I would ever care to know – just for being female – perhaps it is best that I use my divinity to create my own all-purpose toy – some creature who’s a combination teddy bear, daddy, prince Charming, tampon detective and general fuckpiece. I wouldn’t be so unkind as to keep him in my purse. I’d pull him face up in a red wagon with a cunt hitch handle. But need I create any more? It’s such a bore by now! Applications are acceptable. The position is constantly open, for I require fresh pads of attention for every period to come. Feel me, bro?