Sometimes I like to think of my magic day as a three-to-four day rager that my female organs are throwing. They’ve got their red plastic cups, jungle juice, and the speakers thumping. They make a huge mess every time, and someone else always has to clean it up. Everyone living in every floor above and below can hear it and feel it through the walls. My brain is the landlord, and everyone is calling me, wanting to go to bed or get work done or exercise, but the ladies down in Apartment XX are throwing their monthly party. I used to get upset, I’d try to stuff cotton under their door to keep their mess from leaking into the hallway, I used to self medicate and cry about it and wished they’d stop. But now, I’m kind of down with what they’ve got going on. They’re celebrating being healthy and childless, they are celebrating another month of alcohol consumption and another month of freedom.

I still sometimes self medicate, but I tell everyone else in the building to relax. Let the ladies have their fun.

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