Once a month, for four, or sometimes even five days, my head and my heart become a target for her hormonal fits. I feel for her, I really do. I know she's not trying to be at her worst. I realize that my real name isn't "Are you fucking stupid?" I know she hurts. I do love her so, but I'm thinking that I might open a ranch, a 'Menstrual Ranch' if you will. Somewhere that my girl and one-hundred-fifty-million of her closest friends can go to be pampered and loved. I'll have the ranch staffed by masochists and I'll make sure it's secluded. I'll make a fortune.
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