Thou Shalt Not Trust a Period Fart

What in Satan’s flaming asshole happens to my colon when I’m bleeding? I wake up thinking I’ll just deal with cramps and mood swings, but no, my large intestine loads a bazooka and declares martial law. And they’re always random and immediate, like some divine punishment with no countdown. I barely make it to the toilet. No warning, no buildup, just “Rise and shit, princess!” and I’m speed-waddling like Mary Magdalene bolting out of a purity seminar.

Whatever happens to my body during my period should be studied by theologians, not doctors. These aren’t just poops, they’re celestial wrath made flesh. My colon clenched like a nun reading A Court of Thorns and Roses in public. Never in my life have I felt personally victimized by my own rectum. My butthole didn’t just open the gates of Hell, it filed the paperwork, rang the bell, and asked if Hades was free for a coffee. I wasn’t pooping, I was passing through realms. I truly believed I’d end up as a footnote in some ancient scripture. “Here lies Pershitphone who evacuated her soul and saw the Devil blink.”

So if I disappear for two days every month, no, I’m not busy or sad or meditating. I’m just negotiating with God, Satan, and my lower intestine in a standoff that ends with me flushed, broken, and googling “how much blood loss counts as legally dead.” Respect the absence. It’s self-preservation.