I am standing in a draughty, picturesque church on an icy Saturday in December, wearing four-inch gold glittery heels and silently cursing you as you churn up my insides without a thought for the occasion. Try as I might to focus on my friend, the gleamingly beautiful bride, and stand stoic during the hymns she’s painstakingly chosen for us to chorus, all I can think is: will you please fuck off? And when can I rip off this fascinator, my heels, dress, tights and, while I’m at it, my skin? The need for delicious wedding champagne to dull your grip is getting increasingly urgent.
Yeah, I’m talking to you. My pushy, aggressive, attention-seeking period. The very same period that has no sense of timing or mercy. OK fine, due to the wonder of the pill you do arrive on time, mostly. But you pay no heed to how you transform me from a fast-walking, talking vibrant being into a husk who craves warmth, trousers that have lost their elastic, and copious amounts of fat chippy chips doused in vinegar.
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