So you have a vagina

I have an ingrown hair in my armpit that has thrown my entire world on its axis. It has seriously fucked up my entire world. It’s crazy painful too. This isn’t the kind of thing that classy and dignified women talk about and it certainly isn’t what they lead a conversation with. That’s why I’m writing it and you’re reading it. I noticed this little beast two days ago in the shower while I was shaving. While I may talk like a dirty trucker I do manage to keep up with basic grooming rituals including, but not limited to: brushing of hair and teeth, use or antiperspirant/deodorant, regular showers, shaving (as previously mentioned – cuz hippies are cool but body hair is smelly) and laundry when I can no longer see the floor in my bedroom and my pants stand up on their own. That’s disgusting, even as joke. I am actually really fucking clean. To an anal retentive degree; I am a clean human. So, I’m in the shower and I graze this bitch with the razor and I didn’t whine or anything, but I notice it’s tender. I touch it and notice that there is a lump. I have cancer. That’s it, I have cancer, I am dying and it’s time to start thinking about how to allocate all of my debt. That was Thursday.

Friday I went to work feeling like crap on a cracker. I love going to work on days like this. I feel like I’ve earned the right to be a total bitch to everyone around me. I was on my period [shocker for the guys who may be reading this, I do have a vagina and it does still works] and I felt miserable. I work in an office FULL of older men. Not old like Crypt Keeper old, but older Christian men with wives and children who are on the UBER conservative end of the spectrum – men who would rather never ever have to deal with anything in this arena. They’d probably just as soon send me home for a week; which I would welcome if I honestly thought they’d leave me alone or believed I would be allowed to live it down upon return.  I’m popping pills like Pez in the breakroom because it’s the only thing keeping me from throat punching Paul and Steve says to me “That’s an awful lot of aspirin you’re taking today.” He clearly thinks he’s funny. I’m not amused. I want to rip my uterus out and slam it on his desk. Instead I reply “It’s a maintenance program,” which was a stupid thing to do because now Paul is curious. “Maintenance program?” he asks from his office with the look a 6^th grader gives you when you try explaining quantum momentum. More like the look your dog gives you when you ask him something in what you think is dog voice but really is just stupid human voice.  Picture it…tilt head to side…drop brows…there. Got it. I didn’t know how to explain the lack of makeup, sweatpants and pill popping. I just looked at him and very softly said “You have daughters, right?” You would think this guy was going to stuff his fingers in his ears and start crying out “LA-LA-LA-LA-LA, I can’t hear you!” He straight up looked at me and said “Never mind, I’ve heard enough.” That’s all it took to make him uncomfortable. He’s married, has two daughters and two sons and I didn’t even get to tell him my crime scene jokes. I feel short changed. That was Friday

Saturday I have a flat tire. It’s not flat, it has a slow leak. It’s been that way at least two weeks. I’m really lazy. I hate taking care of mechanical crap. I’d just as soon replace the whole damn car if I had endless supplies of cash. Windshield wipers busted? Get a new car! AC broken? New car! Is the dead bolt to your front door sticking? Time to move. I’m not handy, I’m not nice and I’m not good at math. There is very little that is redeeming about me at this stage in the game. The reality is that I know better than to walk into an auto shop for ANY reason unless otherwise accompanied by someone or something with a penis. I don’t even think there has to be actual brain activity, just a penis. Is there a handbook for reference that I can refer to? It never fails; I get fucked [figuratively – not literally] every time I take my car in to get serviced. It’s like I have a neon sign that says “I have a vagina, so please make sure to treat me like an asshole and fuck me without lube!” I absolutely love being taken for a ride. “Hey, that regularly priced oil change that is normally 30 bucks? Yeah, we don’t have that synthetic oil so it’s actually going to cost ya 90 bucks ok?” Anyhow, that slow leak turned into a nail in my tire and ended up costing me to get it replaced. In hindsight, it’s my own damn fault for not asking to see the tire and the nail. I wanted to say “Now you’re just making shit up and probably even stuck the nail in there because I walked in here by myself and I am sans penis,” but then I realized that probably wouldn’t help matters any and when I looked around I realized I was the only chick in there. All the other ladies going through this on Saturday were smart enough to stay home and ask a male friend to do this shit for them. 

All things being what they are: me being a bitch, never growing a penis, never giving up my vagina to be any different than I am – I am proposing a new business. For a nominal fee, maybe hourly [still working on the details] women need to be able to hire men as errand boys for mechanical stuff. I am tired of getting taken to the cleaners. A friend of mine reminded me that vagina rhymes with “rip me off” and I totally agree. We need to do something about this! Send a penis in its place. Vaginas do enough dirty work. I really think we need our own handbook. “So you have a vagina: A handbook for navigating the afterlife,” because let’s face it; once you really learn how to use the damn thing, it’s all downhill from there.