#this is for all the folks that want scary women to put their cigarette out on them

[ghouljams]

*stares at the ‘but I think you freaks want them to eat you’ tag and simply pretends I do not see it*

you've all worn me down. tw for cannibalism that isn't a metaphor for sex, body horror, gore, dead dove do not eat

Nobody look at me, I was in the hannibal fandom a long ass time...

Threat hums tipping your head to one side then the other, their smile is wicked and unkind, but their eyes sparkle with something almost pleased as they consider your request.

"If you don't-" You start and they cut you off, their hand dropping to your neck and squeezing a silent warning.

"No I do. I just don't have many people that actually want to be eaten," They explain, "I'm deciding what to start with." You feel excitement starting to shake in your bones, shivery with some strange delirium as they look you over. "Do you want it to hurt?" They ask finally.

"Please." You respond, instead of getting on your knees and begging. They hum again. There's something sharper about their teeth when they smile, something that makes you let out a breath as shaky as your limbs feel. They let go of your neck and twirl their finger.

"Turn around pup," They tell you, and you hurry to comply. Though the way they slip their fingers into their mouth, their tongue stroking over the long elegant digits, makes you want to stop and watch. You swallow down your nerves and feel their slick fingers pushing your shirt up, running down your spine. There's a sharp pain that settles into a dull throbbing pressure, alien, so very alien.

You tip your head to the side as Threat presses close, runs their tongue along your neck. It's the sharp sting of their teeth that distracts you from the twist of their fingers, the razor edge of their nails as they slice the blood vessels around your kidney. It hurts and some terrible instinct forces you to try twisting away. There's a sickly squelch, blood dripping down the front of your shirt, and warming the back. Threat growls against your skin, warning you away from moving too much.

Their hand pulls back, drags through whatever incision they made in your skin, and you shiver at the feeling. It doesn't hurt, but maybe that's not the right word for it. It does hurt, there's a vacuous spot in your body that seems only held together with the strange venomous magic they pump into you, but the warm pulse of the ache drips wetly between your legs. It's only when they pull their hand free that the pain seems to swell, consuming you like fire as they hold one of your kidneys in front of you. The organ throbs weakly as they extract their teeth from your neck, lick the blood that flows like a faucet, and press a placating bloody kiss against your jaw.

"You don't need this," They tease, laughter clear on their tongue as it drags against your earlobe, "do you baby?"

#tw cannibalism #this is based on one of my puppygirl friends #who has been going insane on twitter recently #honestly I respect it #this is for all the folks that want scary women to put their cigarette out on them #I see you #oc x reader #oc: threat #reader x oc #x reader #x oc #tw gore #tw body horror #*neopets voice* I literally don't respect any of us #is this good for you

[teawaffles]

There’s No Business Like Show Business: Chapter 2

The next day.

After finishing his work at the mansion, Bond headed to Whitechapel’s Leman Street, where Maya and her company normally held their rehearsals. [1]

Walking down the noisy street was not just Bond, but also three other employees of the Moriarty household. One of them was Fred Porlock.

“It would’ve been fine if only you came along, Fred…… But thanks for joining us anyway, you two.”

Bond directed that to Jack Renfield and Sebastian Moran, who were walking a little behind him.

As Fred was a master of disguise, Bond had asked him to contribute his opinion on the performance too when Jack and Moran decided to tag along. Now the four of them were on their way to the rehearsal — with Louis’ permission of course.

Jack roared with laughter.

“No, you don’t have to thank me. I’ve watched my fair share of theatre, so I thought I could help them out, even if it’s from an amateur’s perspective,” said the old butler, nodding as he reminisced about those good old days.

“You’re probably just after the young girls from the theatre company, aren’t you old man?” Moran said, half in disgust. “Bond said this Maya chairwoman is a dashing lady in her own right, so I came along to feast my eyes on—— Ow, that hurt!”

Jack had clapped Moran on the head, as a warning to not shoot his mouth off.

“The only one here chasing women is you. Really, you didn’t even finish your chores properly before coming here.”

“I did my part just fine. For once, I’m not skipping out on work.”

“Rubbish — I did a check before we left and found some cigarette butts in the hallway. Don’t you dare annoy Louis any further.”

“……W-Well, the more the merrier, right?”

“…………”

Listening to their usual argument at the back of the group, Bond smiled wryly, while Fred was silent.

Finally, they had reached their destination. Waiting in front of the theatre was Maya, and her little sister Mae.

“Mister Bond!”

“Hey, haven’t seen you since yesterday.”

Mae waved her arms up and down in excitement, while Bond greeted them with a smile.

“S—sorry. Normally, she would play with the other children near our place, but today she insisted on coming with me…… By the way, um, who might these, d—dignified gentlemen be?”

“Ah, they work at the same household as me. The short one here is Fred. The somewhat scary-looking one is Moran. And this dandy old gentleman is Mr Jack. If you’re alright with it, I thought you could use their input as well.”

As Bond introduced them, the three men also greeted their host. But Maya seemed a little perplexed.

“……Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to come here in a big group,” Bond admitted, looking slightly uncomfortable.

“No, no.” Maya hurriedly waved her hands. “I—I’m really grateful to be able to, hear valuable feedback from, so many people. For now, let’s not stand here to talk, please come in……”

Maya guided them into the theatre, stooped in a self-abasing posture. Her faltering voice was much as the same as from their previous encounter, but today, nerves seemed to have crept in as well.

“She has a sort of shadow about her, but that has its own charm. Like the transient beauty of a young widow, don’t you think?”

“She’s pretty, for sure, but not really my type. More like the kind of woman who complicates things when you break up with her.”

“Um, sorry you two, but if you could just keep your voices down,” chided Bond, as Jack and Moran whispered about the chairwoman behind her back.

Right after the entrance was a cramped space. The box seats above them looked hastily constructed; in truth, the interior decorations made it seem more appropriate to call this place a playhouse, rather than a proper theatre.

But their guide had only praise. “The manager here is, a really nice person; whenever we say we want to practise, he’s always happy to lend it to us. There are performances held at night, so we can only use it during the day.”

“He trusts you, doesn’t he.”

Hearing her speak with such sincere gratitude, Bond was quietly impressed by her character. Perhaps her dark aura easily invited misunderstanding, but she was definitely genuine at heart.

“Speaking of which, Miss Maya, you said that you’re the director for this performance, but surely someone else is responsible for the sets and the arrangements at the other theatre during this time?”

“Another member is in charge of the sets, but the negotiations and the like, w—were handled by me. Even so, the manager of the larger theatre — a nobleman — had actually approached us to be the opening act for another company, and I just accepted his invitation.”

“Still, isn’t it great to be invited to perform on a bigger stage, even if it’s just as an opening act?”

“Yes; for people like us — a theatre company from the slums, we don’t have many chances to show the world what we can do, so everyone’s doing their very best.”

Saying that, Maya secretly clenched her fists. Surely the one working the hardest was none other than Maya herself.

There was no audience in the stalls, and on the stage were a number of men and women — likely the company members themselves — doing light warm-ups and vocal exercises. A few of the children he’d met yesterday were also frolicking about on stage.

One exceptionally tall man on the stage had noticed Bond and the others enter the hall, and spoke up.

“Oh, is that the rumoured theatre master?”

Moran whistled at this unusually grand title.

“Theatre master, eh. A fitting name considering your experience, Bond.”

“Fufu, I’m honoured.”

Bond accepted it with his innate courage and composure. Then, he went onto the stage with Maya, while the other three sat in the stalls at the far end, so as to not stand out and interfere with the rehearsal.

The company members each stopped what they were doing and lined up in wait.

“Everyone, this is Mr Bond, who will be watching our performance today,” introduced Maya.

Right then and there, her voice had become clearer and stronger. A little taken aback by the sudden change in her attitude, Bond took a quick look around the room.

“Hello to you all. I’m looking forward to what you have for me today,” he said solemnly, as he bowed.

“We’ll do our best!” The company members bowed their heads in unison.

From their greeting, Bond could feel the the quality of their bearing, and the strength of their cohesion. Not only that, the tension he himself once felt when he stood on stage came rushing back in waves.

He switched his frame of mind from that of a special agent, to that of an actor, and looked over Maya and her company with an earnest gaze.

“Well then, without further ado, please show me what you’ve got.”

“Yes!”

Even though his instructions had been given with no introductory remarks, they asked no unnecessary questions, and jumped straight into preparation. Even though they had only put up plays in cheap theatres, Maya’s company already displayed the high level of professionalism they had developed.

“Miss Maya, what’s the programme for today?” Bond asked, as he moved to the row of seats right in front of the stage.

Maya was also directing Mae and the other children to sit down. “We’re starting with ‘The Red Shoes’, followed by ‘The Little Mermaid’, and lastly, ‘The Little Match Girl’.”

“Hmm, fairytales, I see.”

The unexpected subject matter piqued his interest.

In a time when Shakespeare was all the rage, to perform children’s literature in a proper theatre, and a serious scripted play at that — now this was a bold move.

But as someone who liked to do things unconventionally, that was precisely why their play intrigued Bond. Yesterday’s playful rendition of “The Little Match Girl” was probably inspired by it as well.

Then, the tall man who noticed Bond earlier spoke up.

“Ain’t it interesting? Maya always makes sure to write plays that even us poor dumb folk understand. Today’s script is also entirely her work,” he said cheerfully.

“Weren’t you in charge of creating the play too? You should be able to write at least one decent line of dialogue.”

At the man’s self-satisfied tone, a woman beside him sighed. But he ignored her pointed comment and carried on.

“There were a bunch of people who’d always thought ‘Hamlet’ and ‘Macbeth’ and the like were plain boring; but after Maya broke them down into something easier to follow, they’ve gotten hooked onto Shakespeare.”

“Being able to interpret works in a way that everyone can understand…… A wonderful talent indeed.”

But if you were to put on a proper production of Shakespeare in an unregulated theatre like this, you would be caught by the censors. To avoid that, incorporating music and the like into their productions was a brilliant adaptation on their part.

Bond had said that last part out loud, and the man thanked him for his words of praise. The members of the company had shown their admiration for Maya, but the woman herself took in a deep breath, as if to hide her embarrassment.

In other words, in order to put on a play that everyone could follow, the answer she'd arrived at was “fairytales”. Although it may be the best choice given the short length of the opening act……

“I’m sitting next to Mister Bond!”

“Hey, no fair!”

Bond had been absorbed in thought about the contents of the play. Nearby, the children were scrambling for the best spots. Having won the seat to the left of Bond, Mae asked him a question.

“Mister Bond, do you like ‘fairy tales’?”

That pulled him out of his thought process for a moment, and Mae smiled.

“Yeah. I read them when I was a child.”

“I like them too, because Maya and the rest always read them in a fun way—”

“Me too!” The other children raised their hands and shouted. Reading stories aloud while acting out the roles was indeed a theatrical way of reading to children.

However, Mae immediately pouted in frustration.

“But I really hate that story.”

“……Why is that?”

“The little girl always looks so sad. I tried asking Maya to give it a happy ending, but she just said that we have to ‘respect the intent of the story’ and didn’t listen.”

Her words helped Bond discern the true nature of the incongruity he'd felt.

As Mae had said, all three stories had their protagonists fall into unfortunate circumstances and perish. It was true that many fairytales were cruel, but there were others with happy endings too. Was there some hidden intent behind these choices?

As Bond pondered the new question that surfaced in his mind, Mae leaned in towards him.

“Mister Bond, do you also think it’s important, what Maya said? No matter how sad a story is, can’t we make it happy on our own?”

She asked that question with clear eyes. Bond thought for a few seconds, before responding.

“It’s true that it’s important to understand the intention of the original story. If you change its contents haphazardly, the fans of the story would be upset. I think your sister is the type who would take that very seriously.”

Mae glanced down in disappointment at his level-headed answer, but Bond continued.

“However, if we were all afraid of criticism, then nothing new would ever be made. If you have something you really want to tell others, then I think it’s possible to add a new interpretation to a story. After all, one form of respect is to show the world how you would’ve done it.”

“……Oh I see!”

Mae brightened up, and Bond smiled. Her question was one that had always, and would continue to vex all interpreters of stories. But at the very least, he didn’t want to make a decision on which way was right.

Just as their conversation had come to an end, it seemed the preparations for the performance were now complete.

“Without further ado, let us begin.”

Standing on a platform, Maya gave a bow, and with that the curtain rose.

Footnotes:

[1] Leman Street is a little to the north-east of the Tower of London and St. Katharine Docks, and within walking distance of both.

T/N: Is this chapter some meta-level commentary on the series itself?! omg

#moriarty the patriot #yuukoku no moriarty #yuumori #english translation #forbidden games

[wtfallonauthor-blog]

Obviously, this is satire. I am not using the White House microwave to eavesdrop on the president scrawling his speech in crayon.

Congratulations to all of you who get to hear the best State of the Union address ever…since last year. I know those of you at home are enjoying it too, because your TV is spying on you. And if not your TV, then your microwave.

First, I want to tell you the state of the Union is great, because I am making America great again! BUT, we still have much to fear, because there are caravans of people from all over the world and maybe even Mars… and a couple parallel universes, see why we need Space Force…  everywhere coming to take what’s ours!

There are so many people to fear, I don’t know where to start—oh wait, yes, I do, yes I do. The gravest threat facing our country today is poor people! You know they’re all out to take your hard-earned money. Not mine, because I store mine offshore, but definitely all of yours. Do you know most poor people work multiple jobs? Where do you think those jobs come from? They come from you, and then you don’t have any money!

State of the Union Leaked Draft

And then those nasty poor people want welfare, folks, they want welfare, even though they’ve taken jobs from the good, hardworking people like you, they still want welfare. Can you believe that? They want free healthcare, free college, a free place to live—who do they think they are, my family?

Then, once they’ve taken all your money, they want to raise the minimum wage. Don’t they know how hard life is for CEOs and shareholders these days? Don’t they know raising the minimum wage to fifteen dollars an hour will force big companies to blame their regular price increases on a higher minimum wage? Don’t they know the damage to our economy when a CEO is forced to limit himself to only five summer homes in the Hamptons? It’s an absolute disaster!

And you know what’s an even bigger disaster than our own citizens robbing the rich? Foreigners. Foreigners who are out to take those high-paying jobs available to everyone with a first grade education in this great country! Foreigners who want to take welfare from the poor mooches who were lucky enough to be born in this great country. Let me tell you, those illegals will rob our poor of every dime they just fleeced from the rich, before they can even spend it on beer and cigarettes. Then they’ll start committing serious crimes—coming after the rich!

There’s another big threat facing this country too: Women. It’s a scary time to be a man, guys, because these days you can’t harass women anymore without them getting all sensitive and snowflakey about it. Can you believe it, now women you don’t even know want you to ask permission before you grab ’em by the pussy? Why do they hate men?

Getting back to pussies, have I mentioned I’m taller than Obama? And I had a bigger crowd at my inauguration? You wouldn’t believe the crowd size! Everyone wanted to see me make America great again.

And I have, but we can’t forget all the threats facing us. We can’t forget the threat of the well-educated. The well-educated are scary because they’re always trying to confuse good, honest, Americans with annoying things like “facts”‘, and I don’t mean the good, safe, alternative kind. The scientists are especially dangerous. Do you know they’ve formed a cabal and created the hoax of global warming? Well, the Chinese helped, but mostly, it was the scientists, folks. It was the scientists. If those people have their way, they’re going to put solar panels on everything, and then how will I get a tan after we use up all the sun running our electricity? Fortunately, my Secretary of Donation Education, Betsy DeVos, is working tirelessly to ensure American students are educated properly on the scourge of environmental hoaxes like climate change. She’s asked me to remind our young viewers to think logically: How can the globe be warming up when the Earth is flat?

As if the scientists aren’t bad enough, then we have LGBT people. Make no mistake, they have an agenda to convert everyone to their sexual preferences. Remember back when America was great, you could turn on the TV and see only straight people kissing each other. Back then, we didn’t have gay people or transgender people or arguments about who used what bathroom. There were no gay people until the gays invaded the media!

It gets worse, it gets worse. Then there are the foreign threats. Mexico is sending rapists and murderers, and Canada is trying to steal our citizens by dangling the carrot of free healthcare. And Norway refuses to send us any more limmigrants because they claim most of their citizens don’t want to move here—even though I’m making America great again! And don’t even get me started on all the people from shithole countries who want to come here and get on welfare, shaking our poor billionaires down worse than our own poor, lazy citizens already have. It’s a disgrace, an absolute disgrace.

And don’t forget, there are the young liberals, like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, who want to turn America into a shithole country like Venezuela. First of all, our oil reserve is bigger than Venezuela’s, much bigger. Second…has anybody seen her birth certificate? Where was she born? How about that Robert Mueller guy, anyone seen his birth certificate? Just curious…and fourth, liberals are all communists, and they want us all standing in line for toilet paper and vodka, and don’t you forget it!

You know why the liberals are doing this? Because they want to give everyone free stuff. It’s like on Oprah. You know I have better ratings than Oprah? I have better ratings. And I never gave away free stuff on my TV show. Better ratings than Swarzennager too. Anyway, free stuff. You get a car, and you get healthcare, and what do the rich get? They get all their tax breaks mercilessly ripped away, and that’s just not right. It’s not right, folks, it’s not right. Billionaires should not have to pay taxes, because they earned their money. Me, for example. I earned my money the day I was born into it, and I’ve been earning it ever since. And I’ve never stopped working for other billionaires like myself, good, hardworking people who only want to preserve the fortunes they earned by being born into the right family, growing up, going bankrupt going to bed with hot supermodels to Wharton, and hosting the most popular TV show that even got better ratings than Oprah, Swarzennager, and Hillary Clinton!

But don’t worry folks, there is a solution here. There’s a way I can protect you from all this pain and misery. Simply donate to my reelection campaign! You can pay online by credit card, or mail a check directly to the Kremlin. Thank you for hearing the greatest speech in history, until next year.

***********************************************************************

V. R. Craft is the author of Stupid Humans, a science fiction book series that asks the question, “What if all the intelligent humans abandoned Earth—and we’re what’s left? She is also the author of the political satire, Fail to the Chief, in which she envisioned the presidential election as a reality show. More of a reality show….

  State of the Union Leaked Draft Obviously, this is satire. I am not using the White House microwave to eavesdrop on the president scrawling his speech in crayon.

#satire #Satire about Trump #state of the union #state of the union leaked #state of the union satire

[ellingtonboots]

Under The Bridge…

  After maybe 6 months of horrible violence in the city, and life without enough food, water, electricity… after months of shelling, shooting, screaming and crying and simply after months of collecting wood for fire, plugging holes in my (what’s left of) roof, I “stumbled” upon on piece of normal life.

Through some contacts of mine, I managed to meet some guys from some kind of international force.

I need to mention here, in the war time there were all kind of strangers in the city, going in and out, through smugglers routes or with rare international convoys.

Some of them were UN forces, other were mercenaries, spies, or simply folks who want to earn money in bad and weird times.

Anyway, one evening I met these guys from Spain. Three big guys with even bigger smiles on their faces. Actually they stated they are from Spain, we did not care even if they came from the moon as long as they were of some use to us…

I was with two relatives, Spanish guys knew some English language and we knew some, and we wave with our hands a lot as an addition in communication.

They wanted to know whey they can find drugs and women, just like most of the outsiders wanted, together with what they called “war souvenirs”, weapons of war and stuff, interesting to them, or I guess exotic to them, flags with blood, knives, personalized weapons etc.

They had small assault rifles that they carried under their jackets, pretty fancy for us in that time, but what caught my attention was a small portable walkman on one of the guys belt and headphones around his neck.

I asked him ‘can I take that for a second and check?’ and he said sure.

I put headphones on my ears, started the machine and when music started I just had to sit down.

It was so powerful to me in that moment that I kinda lost it, I was like drugged.

I was sitting down and listened to the whole song, while Spanish guys looked at me, I guess to them I looked like some savage who never saw a walkman before.

They could not get it…

There I was, dirty and smelly, I could feel my toes in boots are sticky because water get in, I had weird rash on my neck, hand made cigarette smell like hell… but I sat, smiling like an idiot…

Music brought me back all that I have lost in last 6 months, it brought me peace of mind for a moment, memories of normal life, cafes and girls, the beach and fun.

Somehow I forgot all that in only 6 months time, and turned myself to surviving mode only, which was not bad, but in the same time, I lost part of me.

Few days before I met Spanish guys, one of my friends gets killed, he find himself in the open during sudden shelling.

He panicked, and gets frozen behind some telegraph pole, instead of jumping behind wall of ruined house few meters from that spot.

Piece of shell gets half of his head almost with surgical precision, upper half. Scary sight.

And that morning before we met Spanish guys we were (already) making fun out of his death, I said something like “can you believe that idiot tried to take cover behind a pole, like this is a cartoon”? and we laughed like idiots and drink.

I had no emotions about his death.

After we end up with deal with Spanish guys we went home, and I felt like I am gonna cry. Because stupid death of my friend, because I want to listen music not to shoot, because I guess music reminds me on normal times and fact that I HAVE to be sorry because death of my friend, not to make fun of it.

And in the same time I was angry on myself how one song can turn me into sissy.

Later I had the same feeling when I found whole bunch of books and brought them home to burn on the fire, and took one and started to read.

Funny thing.

Point is that no matter how bad situation is, you just need to have some connection with “normal” otherwise you’ll simply turn yourself into animal.

It can be a book, it can be guitar and music, or simply chatting with friends – no matter how hard S. hit the fan.

Do not forget that you are human and you need to have and express emotions, or simply you may burn out.

Today I heard that song on the car radio, and it brings me back to those times and feelings, and I sat down and wrote this post without too much thinking.

It was the Red Hot Chilli Peppers “Under the bridge” song.

Thanks for reading.

              from SHTF School http://ift.tt/2lMsPTd

#SHTF School

[peppurthehotone]

I was chatting with my friend yesterday and when she said she felt nauseous and tired for no reason, I knew we were suffering from the same thing, a natural disaster I call “Hormone Rita.”

(No time to read? Watch “Beware of Hormone Rita” on YouTube)

Because I’ve been tracking my cycle each month, which is basically me studying my womanly health as though I were a first-year med student, I started to notice a curious pattern. I noticed that while happy on the outside, I was having this “Something Wicked This Way Come” experience at the same time each month. And this wicked experience wasn’t “cute” like any of those commercials that have the gray depression bubble hovering over the woman like some cartoon cloud to be blown away by a cartoonish Zeus.

It was worse than that. In some ways, I feel like another person moves in and inhabits my body. Someone we’ll call Rita. She charges in, cigarette in hand and kicks me out with a hefty shove and I’m left sort of caged in a corner of my body while she lives in me as she pleases.

And she’s not very pleasing.

I know what it means to not be happy. A few years ago, when I was genuinely feeling scared about my direction in life, or worried about what was going to happen to me, or felt like everything sucked, I knew I was unhappy. That is an identifiable feeling and when friends would say, “snap out of it” I sort of could because at the root of it, I knew I was feeling sorry for myself or that I was scared and I could work to change my mood and mindset to something more positive, even if just for happy hour.

Today in this time in my life, I don’t have that unhappiness. I’m actually quite happy. But what’s happening is that Rita is taking over.  Who is Rita really? Hormones. Shitty, crappy, powerful, illusive, invisible hormones.

To me, Hormone Rita is more than PMS. She’s stronger than those flimsy three days PMS Susan likes to occupy. Hormone Rita is an ass-kickin’ bad ass.

For those that don’t know, the process of being womanly occurs over a 28-30 day cycle. Roughly. Each woman is different. Day 1 begins when the blood moon rises. So, you start counting on that day for the next 28-30 days watching and waiting for who-the-hell knows what’s next. If you’re TTC, you’re watching for Ovulation from perhaps Day 11/12 on and then you’re watching for any signs of pregnancy until blood moon arrives around days 28-30. So, for almost three weeks, you’re watching yourself and the things that are coming out of  it like a first-year med student. For those that are not TTC and just living life waiting for blood moon, and wondering if you’re going crazy, you too may be watching your body and all that comes out of it like a first-year med student.

On Day 15, I feel it coming. The sickness. I starts in my shoulders. The slightest irritation from any source makes my shoulders twitch, like a drug fiend. It’s then that I find my strap to brace myself. This isn’t a strap for a roller coaster ride, friends. Because roller coasters can be fun. This is not. I put the leather strap between my teeth and bite down. Ready for what’s to come.

If I’m lucky that month, Days 18-21 are “manageable”. I’m still being spit on by Rita, but I can function and I fight back with exercise (good) and alcohol (not-so-good). BUT. The big kahuna is still to come. Day 25-26. It’s looming in the near distance. I bite down and pray.

In med student talk, what’s potentially happening is that progesterone is running amok through my body while Rita is on the couch watching Netflix and eatin’ up all the Pringles. Too much or usually, too little progesterone, causes a twerk in your hormones. You become unbalanced. That dip brings on the need for the leather strap around Day 15 and ….and then, for some reason, there’s another big twerky explosion — either progesterone or estrogen — that happens on Day 25. Doomsday.

This past holiday season, Day 25 fell right before Christmas. Sweet baby Jesus.

Matt would Face Time me from his parent’s home in Florida, where he was for the holiday, and I’d be balled up on the couch. Too far gone to even pretend I was fine while he was gone. Rita was raging. I made it to none of my friend’s Christmas parties. Cheer was not on the agenda.

One morning while he was gone, I laid in bed and literally woke up crying. Who WAKES UP crying? The tears were there just waiting for my eyes to open and to really run free. I pulled the dog near, (’cause she sleeps on the bed) wanting her to lick my pain away, and she didn’t get it; she just wanted to go out for a walk. (My cat Iris would get it. #dogsaredifferent). I was turning in the bed, sobbing so deeply from pain I couldn’t identify. I took a role call.  Lack of pregnancy? Being alone? Overall general ennui (or “NYU” as Nicole and I call it)? I wanted something inside me to raise it’s hand and say, “It’s me!” You’re sad because it’s me. Only, nothing was really the cause. Which made it worse. Like really worse. I cried for a long time and I felt myself spiraling into a place that was scary. I thought about what it would take to just make this feeling stop. To make it go away and leave me alone. I thought about the things that end life. I’ve done this before. And what makes me stop thinking about the things that end life is thinking about my family and Matt and how much pain THEY would be in if I ended my (temporary) pain.

I think about how many women reach this point during a moment in their month. And how they may not be able to attribute this sadness to “merely” hormones and not something much worse, like a depression that can be diagnosed. Does this make sense? I’m not a doctor. I don’t know the difference or the name of hormone-induced depression versus depression-depression.  In my head, I just feel that there is a difference because once Hormone Rita shifts, and takes a break for a few weeks to creep to her reclusive corner of my body to feast up for the next go-round, I’m fine.

I’m writing this so that if you’re that woman who’s feeling so bad for seemingly no reason, these words here might turn on a light bulb that gives you a reason. And then you can tell your loved ones, whomever they may be, that you’re going through this. I’ve told my parents, I told my sister-in-law after she asked me if I hated her and I told Matt.  One month when Hormone Rita crept in, much like the grim reaper that time, I came out of the bathroom and folded into his arms and sobbed, “I can’t stop crying!” He said, “What do you need?” I’d said I didn’t know, just to get me out of the house.

Now, whenever this happens, we have a code word. It’s Benihana. Why? I’ll tell you why.

That day I couldn’t stop crying, we hopped in the car and drove around the Valley. I discovered I was hungry. We found a Benihana restaurant. Of all places. We went in. The place was a madhouse. This was actually a gift because the chaos was incredibly distracting! I’d always known Benihana to be a quiet, sort of upscale place and it has turned into Red Lobster/Disneyland/McDonald’s during the 6 o’clock rush. Who knew? We sat with a group of women who had driven down from somewhere a few hours north of LA. (One of those distant towns where you nod your head, “Yesss, I’ve heard of that place,” when really you haven’t.) Turned out it was a birthday tradition for them to come to the Big B each year. Apparently, Benihana has a great birthday special these days guys, and this became painfully and joyfully apparent after multiple explosions on “Happy Birthday” popped off table after table.

The woman I sat next to was on the thin side; her hair jet black and long, made me think of a 20-year old, modern-day Morticia Addams. She was covered in tattoos. She was dressed for dinner in that way that some folks iron their khaki chino pants, brush their Timbs and are rea’ty go. Next to her was a young girl, I think she was ten. Next to her was another woman. She was heftier in stature, and draped her arms over the little girl’s chair. She, too had the jet black hair and was ready for dinner via bright purple eye shadow and thin penciled eyebrows. She may have had a piercing; I don’t remember. As dinner went on, I realized these two ladies were a couple; mommas to the little girl and I think my tattoo friend was new to the relationship and was finding her way in the family. We all know how that can go. Across from me sat the mom of this family. She had  a bright, yet tired smile, and seemed to have lived in a different part of town than her daughter(s); something closer to The Beavers, perhaps.

As we waited for our chef to make that first sizzled flip of shrimp, I noticed they were interestingly quiet as though there’d been a bit of a disagreement in the car that leads to edgy silence once in public. You know what that means, “The Peppur Show” comes ON! I interviewed, I encouraged, I inspired. With Matt as my co-host, soon we were chatting and laughing and carrying on together.

While we all seriously couldn’t have been more different, me in my frazzled vintage and Matt in his Chicago daily wear, we had the best time.  We stuffed our faces and toasted to their birthdays and found our common ground as you do when you open up around the Benihana grill. And all was right with world. Rita was silenced.

After that, when Day 25 rolls around and Matt begins to see the struggle seizing me, he only has to say, “…Benihana?” His eyebrows lift behind his round spectacles, hopeful that my time in this month is what’s causing me to not look like the woman he likes to love. He doesn’t do this in a condescending way or as a weak offering of an olive branch…It is sincere. Sometimes I bite his head off; because Rita will take it as condescending. But if I get to speak in my voice, I whisper, “Thanks honey, it’s okay.” And off I’ll go back to the glow of my laptop, or to the bed, or I’ll return to what I was doing when he asked with hopes I’ll remember what that was and not be left staring at the hopeless abyss of the closet, clueless.

While Matt was gone in Florida, I pulled myself from the couch and got into a manic panic of Google searching and determined I needed help. And not help from those drugs advertised on TV. I wanted holistic stuff. I’d done a lot of this research before, because balanced hormones is needed for getting a bun in the oven. I scribbled a list of things I knew would cure me. I walked into a modern-day apothecary in Studio City. I grabbed Maca Root. To help balance me out. I don’t like asking for help, but I forced myself to go to the counter and ask the ladies their opinion of Maca. The internet had a lot to say about it, pros and cons. They weren’t sure about Maca. (That made Rita mad; “Then why the hell are selling it?!?”) The pharmacist, in her white coat, asked, “Have you been to a doctor to get an actual diagnosis?”

I said, “No,” knowing it was time. I know my hormones need serious balancing. Rita said, “Get outta here with that bullshit. Really lady? Pffft” and flicked an ash at her as we paid the $21.00 for the pills and left.

I write you from Day 22. I hope to be-goodness that I make it through this month. The Maca root sits unopened in the bag it was sold in. I’m afraid of it because some say it can make matters worse. I did try the Dandelion tea and Red Raspberry Leaf tea I bought that day and I think they’re working; I don’t feel sooooo edgy. Nonetheless, wish me luck and I’ll do the same for you. And, for reals, like exercise, when I write I feel so much better. If you’re also struggling with this, find your pen.

    Maybe she does get it. 🙂

  Beware of Hormone Rita. I was chatting with my friend yesterday and when she said she felt nauseous and tired for no reason, I knew we were suffering from the same thing, a natural disaster I call "Hormone Rita."

#dandelion tea for hormones #depression #hormones #maca root #red raspberry leaf tea #ttc