Someone just come over and put this damn Lunette menstrual cup inside me correctly. I don’t have the will to figure it out, internet, I just don’t. I tried youtube’ing it, but almost no one has a legitimate menstrual cup insertion video. They all puss out using champagne glasses or diagrams of the inside of vaginal canals.

Guys, if I knew what the inside of my vagina looked like, I wouldn’t be standing here like Leatherface right now.

Also thanks for ruining my internal anatomy; I assumed it looked like the first room of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory and now I know it’s just the damn entrance ramp to It’s A Small World.

If it’s not obvious… I’ve been somewhat of a shell of a woman these days. My kids have been out of school for *checks calendar* infinity days, and the cold and ice has made it impossible for them to go outside. I feel the need to note this “too cold to go outside” phenomenon totally didn’t exist when I was a kid. My brother and I were shoved outside every winter in snow pants and Starter jackets. I had a Charlotte Hornets one, I didn’t even watch basketball, I just really liked the colors. Thank God we love our kids more now than the 90’s.

Understandably, though, things have gotten a little restless. Here, I made a video of our day…

I’ve also really started to resent Andy. Not on purpose, he’s really really handsome and helpful, it’s just an unavoidable side effect when he comes home from work everyday all smug with his briefcase and lungs full of fresh air.

Tuesday he walked in and I silently stopped preparing the meatloaf that was in my hands and escaped to the shower, turning the water all the way hot. Not kinda hot. All the way hot, so my skin turns red and I start to smell like Thanksgiving.

Hey.

Hey baby, can I slip in with you?

Brittany? Can I come in?

I’m not in the shower. Go away.

Well, the doors are glass and I can see you standing right there.

I can still see you, you just turned and are facing the corner. It’s a see-through shower.

I turned around and cracked the glass door, breaking the seal of happy steam around me. Andy met my face and then physically recoiled.

Yeah Andy, that’s right, I have pink eye. I have pink eye that I manifested of my own accord, completely unassisted by school germs, and I’m writing a book in a house full of small children and for some reason every chapter ends with, “and then I burnt my house down with gasoline.” So no, you can’t come in my shower bubble right now to touch my parts, because my parts are hairy and infected. You can touch them maybe once they are pretty and I don’t smell and I’m in my happy place. Like in bed with three duvets watching the Olympics eating a meatloaf sandwich. Okay? You have to say okay to this.

He did. In fact, he even made dinner and then swaddled me in bed like a three duvet thick burrito and put on the Olympics so I could trash talk how Bode Miller is destroying feminism and he shook his head in agreement the whole time.

And then I burnt my house down with gasoline the end.

 

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