Dear Period.

period

Dear Period,

Let’s talk. Woman to woman. Lips to lips.

I know it’s hard not to give into peer pressure. At home, you spend your days crossing paths with two powerful teams of hormones. It’s natural for you to want to learn how to dance in sync, as opposed to doing the awkward left-right-left-right “sorry, sorry, excuse me” shuffle down the hall.

You see the moon, growing and shrinking, waxing and waning, and you want to one-up her ability to shift the tides by letting your (our) rivers flow. But trust me, the moon ain’t got shit on your waxing triumphs.

When I stress, travel, or don’t sleep enough, you notice. And you certainly let me know you notice… either by playing hard-to-get, or becoming “that guy” who arrives awkwardly early to the party.

Even a Google Cal couldn’t master your intricate scheduling demands.

So, Period, I want to take a moment to appreciate you for being my monthly trophy for successful escape from not-so-immaculate conception. But there’s also some stuff I want to get off my chest, so to say.

For starters, OWWWWWW!!!!!! Can we tone it down, a bit? To be honest, you’ve felt way more like an exclamation mark recently. I get the point. Let’s stick with appropriate punctuation, please.

Also, real talk… I’ve heard of a sacrificial lamb, but my underwear is not, and never will be, made out of wool. There’s no need to create a scene. You are not auditioning to be the star in one of those popular Bay Area murder mystery games.

And most importantly, when I told him I’m “getting wet” thinking about seeing him Monday night, you weren’t exactly what I had in mind. In fact, not even a close second. Couldn’t you have dropped the package off a few days ago? Or waited patiently until he departed?

Now don’t get me wrong; it’s not that I’m ashamed of you or anything. Your “give zero fucks,” rebellious, hella bold attitude is inspiring. Oh, and you’re quite the feminist, if I do say so myself. On most days, I wish I could be more like you. And even on the less-than-fortunate days, I swear you were the inspiration behind Pollock’s masterpieces.

But maybe, just maybe, someday you’d be down for some compromises.  Till then, I’m going to listen to Rachel Lark on repeat and pray to the “warm, bloody, and tender” goddesses, writhing in pain at your mercy. I hope you’re at least getting off on this.

Love,

-Your Human

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The Moment

Dear Self-Proclaimed Photographers,

Let’s talk about “the moment.”

Within what would be perceived by the average passer-by as a split second, you, Photographer, are launched into a time-warp.

It begins with a *GASP!* This is either in your head, or in the more awe-strikingly uncontrollable moments, projected loudly, sending the old lady standing next to you into sudden shock and a trailing wave of slight (ok, more than slight) annoyance. Lucky for you, you’re long-gone by the time she starts going off.

Following the distinctive *GASP!* is the deer in headlights transformation. In this moment, you have so much in common with your four-legged friend, it’s possible people wouldn’t even question why you bought so much kale. It is possible, though, that they might wonder why all the grocery bags filled with said kale had escaped your grasp and fallen to the ground, as you stare with a dumbfounded look into the sky, seemingly preparing for an alien abduction.

You stand in utter amazement, gazing at this eyegasmic perfection- the perfect lighting, the perfect arrangement of shapes, the perfect depth of color, SHIT, the perfect shot- and you sink deep into the reminder of the transient nature of this lifetime. It feels so cathartic, but it will eventually be over. “This too shall pass,” echoes in your mind, and you begin to finally understand how ironic it was for your friend to get that permanently tattooed down his leg.

Then comes the contemplation of your moral duty. Though the moment will come and go, maybe- just maybe- a glimpse of this gift can be captured and shared, and you might just have the tools to do it. You’re a fighter for human rights, and you’re very much aware of what an injustice it would be if you turned out to be the only one to taste such sweetness. Yes, Eve- eat the fucking apple off that tree, and go bang Jonny Appleseed. The world deserves this!

You reach for your bow and arrow (see: iPhone), and point it straight at the offender. Things may have shifted a bit, but you’re confident you can still tap some gold. You aim… steady… and fire. BOOYAH! Take that, science. You have miraculously managed to package those teeny endorphin molecules into the dimensions of a glass screen. 3-D printing’s got nothing on ya!

Without any editing, you send this fresh-out-of-bed, no make-up on, morning-breath snapshot to a new friend you’ve been crushing on. You want him to lose his breath, feel the bliss, be reminded of life’s impermanence, and learn how to travel through space-time with you. No pressure.

But as soon as you hit send, gather up your belongings, and start walking back to your car, you realize the airplane silhouette had already left the scene, the sun had already set, and the picture turned out to be pretty grainy with shitty exposure. You giggle and wonder if any of the awe you had just experienced managed to make it through the Internet vortex, or if it looks equivalent to an Instagram foodporn disaster.

Probably the latter, you think to yourself, smiling. But this, too, shall pass.

sky