Once A Month

The t-shirt reads plainly, "I bleed black and gold."
Well, I bleed crimson once a month, but
you won't see me advertise it.
Yes, I just talked about my goddamn period,
not like you ever knew what that was like, so
unless you were a woman in a former life
I suggest you keep your lips tight.
OK, so maybe I do advertise it,
no shirt necessary,
And no shoes are needed either, but if required
they will measure once inch off the ground, and no higher
and always be comfort inspired.
If I have to drag my feet around in some
four-inch, plastic teeny-weenies like a
hooker looking to do something to your
four-inch, teeny-weenie wrapped in plastic,
I will not be pleased.
You want to take me out to a fancy dinner?
Fine. I'm wearing this.
No, I will not dig out that little black thing,
and it is a dress, not a skirt.
How do guys not get that?
They can figure out how to check the transmission
fluid in their car,
and occasionally figure out how to rev my engine
but they can't comprehend -- "if it starts at
the waist, it's a skirt" --?
These sweatpants do not have stains or holes
and if it makes you feel better, I'll put on a bra.
There. I'm ready.
What do you mean, you don't feel like going out?
And now you're just gonna sit there and pout?
Look dude, after you're done with the pity party
and you're all cried out,
I'm still gonna be hungry.
So why don't you go boil some water for a box of
macaroni and cheese?
By the time it's done, I bet you'll feel better
But I'm still gonna be like this awhile.
I'd yell at the tampons, but they don't make me smile.
And as far as punching bags go,
you know how to take the hits in style.