Save The Queen

I happen to be one of those freaks of nature who has no idea they are stressed about things at all until their body completely shuts down and fucks up in every which way on them and only then do they sit down not to figure out what is so bothersome, but what in God’s name they did to their body to deserve such a mighty retaliation.

This time around my body skipped the pussy middle ground and went straight to business with a heavy weight punch that has rendered my unable to move my head in any which way or raise my arms slightly above shoulder level. This has lead to me being unable to do the most trivial of things; for instance, I actually had to use scissors to cut open my soy sauce packets because I couldn’t tear them open with my hands without cringing and/or writhing in pain. My body, the vengeful sod that it is, much like the soul that’s contained within, decided to make me into Quasimodo’s stunt double at the most inopportune time imaginable: menstruation time.

I’m sure you’re sitting there thinking that this happens to be the most inopportune time as a result of what would logically be my inability to use tampons, but, I assure you that this is a far worse fate and that I somehow manage to take a deep enough breath to get the job done without requiring a morphine drip afterwards. No, this is the most inopportune time imaginable because during this lovely time of the month I am the equivalent of a 12 year old boy who just discovered that hand + penis + stroke=amazing. I’m the walking female equivalent of a hard-on and simply breathing a certain way makes me moister than a Dunkin Heinz cake.

Naturally, Avery won’t touch me as a result of my gimp status other than to rub IcyHot on my back, and do you have any idea how hard it is to masturbate in this state? If you read an article in the newspaper tomorrow concerning a girl dying from the pain that resulted from her choice to hump a doorknob, that would be me.