I’m not sure that opening with “fuck you” sets the best tone for possible negotiations, so I’ll hang onto that one for now.

Instead I’ll run with “what. the. fuck.?” When we formally met, though I was a mere 11 years old, you weren’t much of a bother. You did your monthly dance, which wasn’t that bad, and resumed day to day maintenance. This relatively non-disruptive relationship continued for many years - into my early 20s! You didn’t even seem to mind much when birth control came on the scene. Little did I know what you had in store for me when I stopped taking it so I could get pregnant.

Boom! PCOS, motherfucker! You made my hair fall out, made hair grow where it wasn’t supposed to, caused intense acne (including cystic acne), and made me start gaining weight around my middle. Not cool, assholes. Why on earth did you need to take it so far?

After finding the right combination of medications and herbs those symptoms were beaten back so as to be mostly unnoticeable. I finally got pregnant and the seas were fairly calm once again.

Now, I’m 40. You decided it was time to start the run-up to menopause, something that could be 10-15 years away (according to the patterns of other women to whom I’m related). Where did you decide to start with this nonsense? The Monthly. Jesus Christ! Super-light flow that may or may not change to heavy flow? Super-light flow that doesn’t stop for weeks? And let’s not forget the BEST: Surprise Period!

I accept that you have more in store for me, but could you give me a little break for a bit? Let me handle this period thing on its own for a bit before piling on the night sweats? I know you’re going to do what you want, but I figure it’s worth a try. . .

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Oh, and fuck you.