Shine has this tradition of breaking up with annoying things on a friday, be they taxi drivers or cockroaches.
So I am breaking up with Aunt Penelope, as my sister would call her. I’ve put up with the fact that she didn’t even barge into my life until I was sixteen, causing me years of anxiety and teenage self-loathing about my puppy fat and flat chest and lack of hips and the rest – and that was pretty bad manners, Penelope, as I’m sure if you think about it you’ll agree.
I was happy to put up with the two days of agony, and following two of comparably less awful pain, for four days out of every five weeks. If you’re going to be in faint-inducing amounts of pain when most of your friends are not, you may as well have a longer cycle, it only seems fair. I was happy to put up with the PMS because half the time it didn’t even affect me either because I was too sad or too happy for it to change anything.
But it seems that you are getting a little too enthusiastic about our relationship, Penelope. Relishing in coming to visit just as my exams get underway. That’s just not funny. It’s understandable, you have a schedule, I know, but it’s not funny. Then to come back – what, did you leave something behind? – two and a half weeks later? Oh, hilarious. I love you too. And then today, not only two and a half weeks since your last visit, but right when I’m finally leaving the house and going on holiday, right when you coudln’t be any more fucking inconvenient. No, I’m not happy. Not happy at all.
For crying out loud, I was so confused and in so much pain this morning that I ended up at the doctors where ideas such as pregnancy, IBS, ovarian cancer, and goodness knows what-all were bandied about. I was prodded and poked and asked all kinds of questions and there were no answers and then you go and show up, smugly, the one thing I had thought quite impossible.
I am not impressed.