Illuminate My Everything

There's a book I've read. I don't know the name of it, but it gave advice on writing and mentioned that a good way to start the day is to write every morning. There needn't be any reason or plot to your writing. Just expel your brain. Or, as I like to call it, brain vomit.

I've written a bunch of entries on here that haven't seen the light of day. Mostly, they aren't finished because I lose track of time and I don't like "publishing" things that are half-assed. But the whole enchilada goes something like this: I have lots of thoughts on the brain, frying away like fertilized eggs. It's really disgusting.

I haven't had my period in more than a month now. Again. And the gyno says that the last pap was "inconclusive," whatever the hell that means. I went to see her last Friday and God almighty, was I happy to have medical insurance and to have found a sane person to check out my lady parts! I almost came in her hands, the experience was so gratifying!

Dr. Gyno made me pee on a stick since I mentioned that I wasn't sure exactly when my last period was. It came back negative, and we talked about whether or not I should have a blood test, and I said that my mental state was way too delicate to handle pregnancy, and that I'd rather pee on another stick in a week or so, after I'd gotten my bearings and felt in control of things again.

Speaking of woman parts, I went to the Brooklyn College production of the Vagina Monologues last night. I meant to see the show, but when I heard that they were short on door staff, I offered my services.

Of course, this was after I'd already shelled out ten bucks for my ticket - but whatever. The girl who replaced me after my time at the Women's Center was up offered to give me a refund, but the lack of audience attendance made me decide to let them have my money.

Sitting out there in the cold, hard lobby, chocolate vaginas and breasts displayed, tantalizingly, in front of me, I talked to Sweet Sophomore and half-listened to most of the show. The lines are eerily engrained on my memory from all the times my mind's run over them, and as I talked to Sweet Sophomore and remembered the women I've assisted in memorizing those lines, a deep pang of nostaligic wonder swept over my body. It was so telling: being a woman, listening to women recite lines that are near and dear to me, remembering how other women made these stories their own, remembering the stories of these women who memorized other women's stories in order to raise money for women in need of the services of Park Slope Safe Homes.

It's an amazing and beautiful thing to be a part of. I hope more people get to see the production this year. I feel like PSSH depends on our annual donation.