The end of shit

I have to brag right now. And I am going to indulge myself because as of late there really hasn’t been that much for me to brag about. I’ve been on anti-biotics for a week—so a week without a drop of booze touching my lips. A week of me being lame, and a week without the restorative powers of getting sloshed and see what kind of shit flies out of your mouth when you stop caring about social conventions. How do you think I come up with half of this shit anyway?

And, as you readers have so eloquently pointed out, as a result of all this shit going on my writing this week has sucked. Now you understand why I will sometimes go weeks without posting anything. I have an artists soul, I am very temperamental. Or so what I’ve convinced myself so I have an excuse for being an asshole who can’t survive in real life.

So, I swear this is the last time I mention it, but, holy fucking shit. Birth Control pills (that don’t mesh well with your body) should be used as a torture device against prisoners of war. I am surprised that my government hasn’t incorporated it into their repertoire of wiping out the enemy. The last time I felt like this emotional rollercoaster was back in college when I sat on a big leather chair telling my therapist how I was afraid of [insert childhood trauma]. Seriously, if we want to end the war on terror, let’s drop some estrogen/progesterone pills into their water supply and see the drama that will ensue. Al-Queda/militants/North Korea/whoever will be so emotionally distraught that instead of building suitcase bombs they will be asking each other, “Why don’t you love me anymore?” Because, in my fit of emotional unrest, I’ve gotten nothing done. Including the inability to pack up my apartment.

Do you know how many people’s love I’ve questioned this month? I’ve called or hung out with them and asked, “why do you like me?” And just two minutes ago I almost burst into tears because Harald wouldn’t give me the passcode to get into the office. This shit motherfuckingly sucks.

In light of all this shit, and today just highlighting what I already knew, I stood over my toilet on the phone with Lauren:

“Lauren, so what would happen if I stop taking the birth control pills?”

Soliciting medical advice from my friend who is taking pre-veterinarian classes, of course as I am popping the pills out of their blisters.

“I don’t know Shannon. Maybe you should speak to your gyno about that. I don’t think that is the best thing to do, to stop the pill mid-pack.”

“Fuck it,” the pills are at the bottom of the toilet, “I am flushing these fuckers down the toilet.”

“Shannon, just call your gyno…”

The toilet flushes.

“Shannon, you just did it didn’t you?”

I laugh, that guilty admission.

“It’s like dealing with a small child. Telling them don’t don’t, and you they do it anyway.”

“Yup.”

“You know, you could have just thrown them into the trash, you did not have to flush them down the toilet.”

“But it is so much more dramatic. There is something very final about watching shit sucked down the toilet, the flush adding dramatic emphasis that you just can’t find in closing the lid of a trash can.”

“You have a point.”

Much like most of the repercussions from my impulsiveness throughout my life, I have no idea what is going to happen. I do, then deal with the consequences later.

Much like this post, I know you readers are tired of hearing about my uterus. So I promise, this is my last mention of birth control. Unless I have a funny drunk story about a glow in the dark condom and an abnormally shaped penis.

However, I would like to draw the reader’s attention to the fact that today I did not take my birth control pill. And this post is much much better than the normal shit I have posted this week. Coincidence? I think not!

Monday I move into my new apartment six blocks away from my surrogate big brother Harald. I am so fucking excited. Emotional crutch that is within walking distance!