#female problems

It was raw, and it stung.

The second she’d heard her bowels rumble on the last bite of her Tapatío-enhanced triple patty El Diablo burger she knew she’d be in trouble, but she didn't care at the time; she was on her period and craving the burning umami of that cheesy, charbroiled beef blended with those batter-encrusted jalapeño poppers, slathered in that fiery habanero sauce. Absolutely anything to distract from the wretched tearing of her insides that had been sloughing out into her Mooncup.

It felt like an attempted suicide, her little red ring rubbed raw and suffering from her reckless and unwise decision for a temporary problem. 

The first blast was relieving, but it was quickly extinguished and replaced by horror and regret as she felt the cold backsplash of toilet water combined with red hot fecal lava shooting out of her ass and the inky, gelatinous goo resembling warmed blueberry preserves molting from her womb splatter against all of the muscles  and orifices that were trying to violently void it all.

It took a few courtesy flushes before Thing could even start helping her wipe, though it wasn't exactly helpful when there was so much of everything everywhere that her crack resembled the remnants of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that had been thrown against the wall during a food fight. The first sopping wipe as Wednesday allowed herself some tears was the most embarrassing, and it was clear that the roll on the mounted roll holder would soon be gone as would be the extras on the roll holder next to the toilet.

But now she sat in silent prayers as she felt the knotting pain in her abdomen return. She didn't know which hole was getting ready for the umpteenth expulsion, but either way, both holes were burning, the tender skin unwillingly exfoliated by only the roughest of toilet paper brands as demanded by her kooky father because it builds character.

At least Thing always remembers to wipe from front to back.

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