Humor Magazine

Guest Post: My “Lady Areas” Are Guilty of Attempted Murder

By Katie Hoffman @katienotholmes

My “Lady Bits” are trying to kill me, constantly.  I think a lot of lady bits out there in the world could be jailed for attempted murder and at the very least Manslaughter.  (Womanslaughter?  That is a sexist term, amiright?).  Men have no idea the shit we put up with every single month.  They are CLUELESS.  Their areas never try to murder them (unless someone else tries to murder them by kicking them, but that’s not the same at all).  Their areas are only for pleasure all the time.  Their areas love them and treat them kindly.  Our areas wish destruction down upon us.  Our areas for some reason are out for vengeance.  Our areas are filled with hate, they are conniving, evil, bomb-implanting bastards.  WMD’s ain’t got nothing on my lady areas.  My lady areas are like a secret assassin.  They’re sneaky, deadly and vicious.

Basically if there was a trial, my lady areas would go to jail for a very long time for what they’ve done to me. Probably life. My lady areas are nihilists.  They care about NOTHING, Lebowski!  Nothing but murder and pain and carrying on.  I’d like to go to the police station and submit a claim against my lady areas and ask them to be arrested on the spot for trying to hurt me.

The lawyer that my lady bits would hire would be up there trying to defend them, claiming they were minding their own business, going about their processes and they didn’t mean any harm!  LIES ALL LIES!! My lawyer would cry out.  The Lady Bits knew whose property they were on when they committed the crime.  They knew who would be hurt in the process.  They knew and they didn’t care! Collateral Damage means nothing to them! The words are meaningless! The only language they speak is destruction and pain!  And they committed the crime anyway!  It would be like the trial on the Pink Floyd album, The Wall.  Good Lord it speaks volumes to me: “Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear, I sentence you to be exposed before your peers. Tear down the wall!” My whole blog is about tearing down the wall! Anthem!

Basically men need to understand that women are dealing with a boatload of utter HELL inside our bodies.  I mean for gawd’s sake…think about how much extra room the male body has in the torso!  JASUS H!!  All their “areas” are on the outside!  They don’t have a womb or any of that shit.  Their lungs and stomach and intestines have all this room in there!  It’s goddamned ROOMY!!  So much room to stretch out.  Leg ROOM!  It’s first class!  It’s like a freaking conversion van in there while I have to live with a clown car!  Not acceptable Body!

Our stuff is all crammed in there and we’re supposed to be able to GROW someone else inside us.  Where? Where is there room?  Oh yeah, there isn’t room and that’s why we can’t breathe, eat, and have to pee all the time with pregnancy.  Men know nothing about this.  Their areas are not plaguing them every single month.  Their areas aren’t plotting their downfall for YEARS and YEARS!!  I think the equivalent for men would be if they had to squeeze a grape out of their areas.  It’s probably not even accurate.  Maybe a grapefruit?!  HAAA!!  PICTURE THAT SHIT!!!  Are you shuddering with terror?  Are you disgusted?  MWAHAHAHA!!

Men are also not required to be poked and probed by the doctor every year or so as soon as they turn +/- 18.  We have to get our areas checked out to be sure they are completing their murderous tasks correctly.  This is where the “Areas” become card-carrying assassins.  What do you think Birth Control is all about?  The BC pill is part of the status symbol of areas.  The more badass the areas, the more birth control necessary to try to keep them in check.

Now that I have Endometriosis my areas have been given a super secret extra deadly assassin card, level DASTARDLY MURDERER, CODE BLACKPOWDER EXPLOSION MASTER of TORTURE and PAIN.  Card-carrying areas, licensed to kill.  Even James Bond could not destroy, jail, catch or punish my areas.  Nope.  They are TOO hard core for that.  And besides, he’s a man, he’s clueless.  No dice.

The best part is that I’m expected to perform just like anyone else.  I’m supposed to be at work or social events even though my areas have declared war against me and I have attempted to wave the white flag to no avail.  How can you act normally when there are plots and sub-plots and coups against your life?  How can you function when you can’t even get a restraining order against your own body?  People don’t get it.  They think, hey you look just fine and great on the outside, so everything must be dandy as can be!  You look swell!  NO!  NO!!  I am swelling from the pain!  I am dying inside!  My ovaries are exploding within me! They’re mini bombs!  They’re hand grenades.  They are like the holy hand grenade of Antioch!  The Holy Hand Grenade of HELL!!

I’ve been beaten to a bloody pulp.  Just annihilated.  Black and blue. Punched in the stomach by some pretty brass knuckles WITH bedazzlement.  Good God, I’m bleeding internally.  INTERNAL BLEEDING!!  Can you not see this is an emergency?!  We have reached critical mass. And no one cares or understands!  How can I tell my male boss, my body is destroying me?  My body is plotting against me as we speak, planning deadly attacks that will leave me bombed out and broken?  Men are like…whattya mean?  It hurts?  I mean it’s weird and gross and I try not to think about it at all, but pain?  I don’t know anything about that.  Sorry!  I think your threshold for pain is low, my dear.  So you’d better suck it up and get to the damn office.  It can’t be that bad!  Frankly Scarlet, I don’t give a damn!

Hell yes it can be that bad! Blast them.  Why can’t they at least carry the babies?  Couldn’t they shoulder some part of the burden of reproduction?  Couldn’t reproduction be just the teeniest bit of a problem for them?  I’m just asking for some blood or some pain?  Maybe some lower back pain?  Maybe a bit of bloating?  Somehow we must share the love or in this case hate.  If I could, I’d send my assassin after them to kick them silly in their areas.  But alas, it’s my personal assassin, assigned to me for life, needling me into submission until I’m bent over in pain begging for sweet, sweet mercy.  But hey, I look just fine.  That’s all that matters.

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 Victoria Sawyer is an author, blogger, and avid reader. She’s also a badass, rant-loving, loud (and sometimes foul)-mouthed mental health advocate. Her book, Angst, illustrates first-hand how it feels to suffer from panic attacks, anxiety, and depression. You can also find Victoria at her blog Angst Anarchy, on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads. 

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