I. Hate. My. Body. I want it to bugger off.

Dear Body,

I have only two words for you: Epic. Fail.

Okay, I lied. I have several words to follow them: you really, really freaking suck and I hate you and if I could trade you in for a new model I totally would because you make me miserable with all of your problems and bull hockey crap stuff.

That's right. Your bull hockey crap stuff.

I can't even begin to tell you all of the reasons you totally suck monkey balls. There are so many things that you do just to piss me off. 

I can forgive you now for the lack of boobs. I like my small chest. It's proportionate to the rest of me. I may have hated my lack of endowment in high school, but I'm over that now. It's all whatever, and under the rug. I can forgive you for being entirely too skinny for my childhood and teenage years, and for playing into Relly's hands when she told the whole school and faculty that I was anorexic my freshman year. I can forgive you even now for gaining weight that I decidedly no longer want, and I'm pleased that despite the weight gain you've had the decency to stay slightly under-weight. I can forgive you for blue-green eyes when I wanted so much to have straight up green. I can get over the pale eyebrows that hardly ever show up in pictures unless I darken them with shadow or liner. I can even forgive you for the diamond shape of my face when what I really wanted was dramatic oval. I'm still working on forgiving you for the not completely flat stomach. I may never get over that completely. But I'm working on it. I totally love and appreciate you for not being able to have children.

But seriously, I've taken extreme measures to not have cramps or an ovulation cycle, and you fucking found a way around it. How the hell did you get past the chemical and hormonal blockade? I know you never reacted to pain killers, but how the hell do you get around the complete and total alteration of your chemical make up? Are you trying to fucking kill me? And not only is this not supposed to happen at all, but it's been going on for two weeks now. Two fucking weeks. I'm starting to think I'm going to bleed to death. Also, you're fucking torturing me because I happen to sleep next an attractive man every night that I love, and there can be no physical affection exchanged because you are too busy trying to make me bleed to death. 

Two weeks, and we are both suffering on that count. 

Look at that. I'm swearing at you, I'm so angry. And you can't blame me. This is abso-fucking-lutely unfair and cruel, and you know it. And you don't care. If I could, I would have a hysterectomy and have all of it taken out, and then I wouldn't have to deal with this ridiculous cycle of pain-no pain-pain-fever-vomit-pain-worse pain-kill me now-no pain bullshit. Unfortunately, there's this fucking code of ethics bullshit and no doctor I've ever found is willing to take it all away because I've never had children. Never mind that I can't have children, as long as there's a chance they won't do it. They are, apparently, on your side.

Those doctors are all sadists.

And so are you.

Sadist. 

Ha-ha-HA.

Well the joke is on you. Because if you send me to the bathroom to throw up one more time today, I'm not going to eat anything for the rest of the fucking week. And then you won't have any energy and won't be able to do anything but lay in bed. And there will be nothing to regurgitate, either. So you will lose.

And you know what else I'll do? I'll go to the doctor and get that shot. 

Yes. The Shot.

Voluntarily. 

You hate them. I hate them. But I'd rather get one than deal with you. 

Because you, my dear, are a fucking bitch to live with and in. 

You lose. Good day, sir. 

Sincerely pissed off and sick and tired of you and your bull hockey crap stuff,

Chanel

P.S. Fuck you. Yup. That's right. Fuck you.