Today I go in for a pap smear.
Words cannot express my excitement.
("Close your eyes and think of England!" a friend of mine advised. Let me say for the record that I’m getting awfully suspicious of all the time England seems to spend associated with my crotch! Seriously, England, I like your accent, but I don’t think we’d suit.)
On the bright side, yesterday while out with Otter for our weekly sushi-and-fish-store jaunt, we hit a thrift store, and I got a wonderfully loud batik shirt. I am a sucker for batik. The shop had paired it with white slacks, and while they looked good together, I do not own any white slacks, because on some level I am unshakably convinced that if I ever put on a pair, I will immediately and spontaneously get my period, regardless of time of month and strict chemical controls. Despite a remarkably cavalier attitude to menstruation these days–"Oh, look, the Red Army is in town,"*–the ghosts of the fourteen-year-old that I was have never been completely laid to rest.
*Personal rating system includes "The Red Army has sent scouting parties," "vanguard of the Red Army," and "Valentine’s Day Massacre." All that lite-flow-days crap seems like a waste of a good metaphor.
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