cover up toots, your hormones are showing

just a reminder,
being a woman is not for pussies.

putting aside the whole life-long evolution of
sugar and spice,
growing and then harvesting tits and hips,
being fitful and moody,
(titful and hippy?)
dramatic and detached,
sexual awakening and politicking,
the pms-ing, ms-ing, post ms-ing, (back to one! let's do it again, girls!)
yeast infecting,
childbearing and rearing,
and on and on and on.

viva la vadge!
right?

but this bit,
this mack truck of middle-age bullshit is wearing me out, folks.
(middle-aged? me? i swear to fucking god, i was just a scrawny wide-open twenty-something, my femaleness just a pretty accessory and occasional sparkly distraction).

i guess it really started with the removal of that stupid ovary.
i started a distinct list, starboard side.
that is,
my adorable, light, fluffy side
went under.
port being my spacey, dark, chubby, easily irritated side
rising rising rising
out of the ashes of the hot flashes.
(or "ha frashes" as my beautiful acupuncturist, dr. yo calls them).
oh the ha frashes!
it starts
somewhere
out of nowhere,
deeper
than
deep inside
and then it moves, (just like nausea! weee!)
one big rogue tidal wave of
earth's core fire
and out-of-my-mind agitation.

there is no thought that can be clung to.
there is no iceberg cold enough.
there is no herb soothing enough. (fuck that shit, people)
no place zen enough.
no man man enough.

now, i don't know if they are an actual thing or not, but
this is what i imagine a hormone magnified 10 billion times might look like

kinda like an wicked dust bunny herd, on a rampage. with torches.

those little scribbles off to the side are hormone poop.