Last week the boss at cancer research headquarters decided the time for reckoning had come, and gave the green light to all employees to run straight to the internet and shit all over everything we have ever loved. Or at least the things that made bleeding all over ourselves somewhat tolerable. Bacon, processed meat, red meat and tampons… here a cancer, there a cancer, everywhere a cancer cancer.
Okay, I get the bacon thing. I am not exactly shocked that strips of salted then fried pig fat isn’t a super food. That it causes cancer seems a bit extreme, but… okay. I mean, bacon was one of the things on my “Ten Things That Make Life Worth Living” list, but okay. Fine. FINE. Fine.
But let’s talk about tampons for a sec. Periods are awful, especially periods after you’re done having kids. As I told my friend Julie it’s like forcing someone to spend a week every month blistering their fingers fixing a fax machine. My uterus is cold product. Obsolete. Yesterday’s news. Even so, month after month I tolerate nature’s horrible. The cramps. The bloating. The gross. The homicidal thoughts. For what? For the one thing that keeps it tolerable to launch a tumor in my vag?
And I realize that hindsight is 20/20, but why are we just putting this all together now? Like, I guess I feel like before I mass produced something for people to stick in their bodies, I would make sure it wasn’t, ya know, POISONOUS. I hate to pull the sexism card but I would bet money that it was a man who missed that line item on the “to do” list.
I don’t ask a lot from life. Most people don’t ask a lot from life. Food, shelter, love, salted fried pig meat every so often and not to wallow in our own badness. I really, really try to make choices that will keep me alive as long as possible. I wear my seat belt every time I get into my car. I exercise, sort of. I wear sun block every day, even if it’s cloudy. I poke around on my boobies every so often. I don’t go on three day crack benders at Las Vegas brothels. I don’t stand in front of the microwave. I want to live, but if you’re literally going to give me the choice between death and rolling up to parent teacher conferences like this…
… well pass the cigarettes because we’ve all gotta die sometime.