the smell of my desperation has become a stench

Overly Italicized Conversation Between Two Engaged Persons At the Gas Station

“When I’m sick like this, it’s like I’m PMSing. My skin just, I don’t know, freaks out.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait. How would you know what it’s like to PMS? You have no idea what it’s like to endure a menstrual cycle.”

“I may not know what it’s like to bleed from an orifice for a week every month, but�”

“An orifice?! An orifice?! Jesus! We’re not talking about just any orifice. It’s not like a pore or a fucking nostril, or anything. My God! We’re talking about The Orifice, about The Grand Ole Opry of Orifices.”

“The Grand Ole Orifice?”

“Yes! Exactly.”

“Does that mean that a man’s, um, manhood is the Willie Nelson of country music?”

“More like the Johnny Cash.”

“The Johnny Cash?! The fucking Man in Black? My manhood has never sung the Folsom Prison Blues. Just so you know.”

“Well, My Grand Ole Orifice has never hosted a Shania Twain tour, but you get the idea.”

“Okay, but, what is it with the whole Shania Twain thing? She’s Canadian, for Christ’s sake. You can’t be Canadian and country.”

“That’s a really snooty sentiment.”

“Give me a break, already. I told you, I’m PMSing.”

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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