3 Letters to a friend: 2
Letter 1: You have to believe in destiny
Letter 2: Like a woman (you are here)
Letter 3: I am not taking the shortcut
I have sent you so many letters this month. I need to actually chill.
It’s 1:15 am and I just ate dinner/lunch/breakfast for yesterday. It was bread, eggs and tea.
The topic of this letter is the type of thing people think about when they are high, but my secret is that, like Bruce Barner is always angry (hulk), I am always high. Let me tell you about some thoughts that have come to my mind about ‘the woman.’ Specifically about how dramatic menstruation is for something that happens monthly for 40 years. This letter is in three parts
Part 1: Women don’t exist
So there’s this rather unpopular but very good idea about free will. The idea is that it doesn’t exist. Like true free will doesn’t exist. Why? Because we are made up of bacteria and other micro-organisms. We rely on microbes to survive. We need them to digest our food and to do so many other things. So what are we other than the home for microbes. These microbes influence when we are hungry and when we are thirsty and how we feel and even how we smell. The things we think we are, are simply effects of microbes. The line between the two is very blurry. Don’t worry, I will get to the women part.
So there are some parasites that alter the minds of their hosts when they get into them. I learnt about a parasite that lived in fishes that made the fishes want to swim closer to the surface of the water. By swimming closer to the surface of the water, they often would get captured by birds and killed. The fishes were essentially committing suicide but without knowing it.
So I was thinking about how women have to go through so much hormonal turmoil for simply being women. Like all of those hormones disrupting their lives. Which part is a woman and which part is a hormonal reaction? Bottomline, women don’t exist. Lol, I tell this story better in person, I promise.
Part 2: Women are old men with urinary dysfunction for their entire life.
So in all of my life, I have had only one understanding of how things leave the human body. The substance accumulates and when I am ready, I clench my muscles and I push it out. Even though it’s non-voluntary, I am completely in control of peeing, pooping and farting. This is my normal. But women have this extra thing that jumps the accumulation part, ignores muscular action and just lets itself out whenever the fuck it wants. What the hell is that about? That’s just terribly unfair. The only other humans I know with that are old men with dysfunctional urinal tracts who cannot control their urine. Ergo women are old men with urinary dysfunction.
Part 3: The layers of knowing a woman
It is one thing to meet a woman. To start to talk to her, to hang out with her. To see her now and then, to text. It is a completely other thing to be included in her life to the extent that you know she has periods. I mean theoretically, you know all women have periods. But then when you meet a woman, you don’t think about it. It doesn’t occur to you that they might be menstruating now, or last week, or next week. But once you cross that line, once you become close friends and you learn the moments she is on her period and she isn’t, you suddenly become part of her. Like her, you now live on a calendar. One period comes and then the next, you too start to take notice of passing time. Wow, it’s been a month already.
There are levels to knowing a woman. The second level is where you find out she has periods.
I wonder how odd it is that I am writing about periods at 3:33 am while everyone else sleeps. Menstruation is way too dramatic though.
*hits blunt
From your pen pal, daily writing.
Delivered January 24th 2021
Letter 1: You have to believe in destiny
Letter 2: Like a woman (you are here)
Letter 3: I am not taking the shortcut
Disclaimer: I want to write a disclaimer about the ideas shared here but what would I even say. They are not intended to be malicious or obtuse. They are thoughts I was having in the middle of the night.
