Please welcome the lovely and talented Golf Widow who has agreed to write a guest post for me today. Give her lots of comment love, fuckers.:
At the beginning of this year, the Fortune 500 company for which I’d been working the past seven years informed me that my position was being eliminated due to “budgetary constraints,” because somehow my meager salary was cramping their style, what with their very healthy 2007 fourth-quarter earnings and their recent acquisition of another company to merge into one of their divisions.
Bitter? I? Never.
I have been selling guest posts to other bloggers for $2 a pop to make money, thus supplementing the lack of income I’ve been forced to cope with since this change of circumstances. I’ve sold quite a few of them. No one has asked for their money back, so far.
Thanks to Avitable, this site is now going to be host to some information you probably never would have seen appear here, otherwise. I figured it would be okay, because Avi has a fair few women reading this, and the men would just decide that he’s “getting in touch with his feminine side” or “being a lot gayer than usual,” to which I would like to interject “Not That There’s Anything Wrong With That.”
Anyway, it has been suggested to me, by a fair few people, that my writing skills would be most valuable to a site such as Associated Content, but I don’t feel as if I have enough experience with any given topic to write knowledgeably about it.
This morning, I woke up thinking I actually do have enough knowledge to write an article called, “How to Have a Monthly Period,” because I’ve been having those for about two and a half decades now, but the people who need that information are kind of limited. Women don’t need to know, men don’t want to know, and little girls aren’t reading Associated Content.
Basically, little boys would be the ones who’d want this information, but you know what they’re looking for. Pictures of boobies and naughty bits.
The stuff I know about monthly periods, about how messy it is and how sick it makes me feel, and how it’s not the beautiful, magical womanly crapola the books and films promised me it would be, would certainly turn little boys off women for life.
I’m not saying it would turn them gay. That’s not possible, as far as I know. But it would certainly make them realize they don’t want to deal with P.M.S. or P.M.D.D.
I don’t want to deal with either of those either.
But I suddenly realized something kind of crucial, when I started punching numbers into my calculator to figure out that I was eleven when I got my first period, and it was springtime, so I’m going to be thirty-holy-crap-seven next month, so that’s twenty-six years, times twelve months, fairly regularly, that’s three hundred twelve periods I’ve had so far.
Give or take a few. Because I missed one last month.
And I don’t remember having one the month before.
I had better be going through the change, because I am as ill-equipped as Juno MacGuff to deal with a baby right about now.
Less so, because I am not nearly as cute as she is, and I don’t have Diablo Cody writing my next line either, if I am.
Which is not to say that I’m ready to deal with menopause, either.
THIS IS NOT A GOOD TIME.
Associate that content.