Being on a 28-day menstrual cycle makes everything nuanced. When the 27th day approaches, I am an emotional mess, my face gets re-aligned, I cry at nothing, my back feels twisted and broken. 

By the 28th day, my silk robe is stained, my fingers are bloody and my husband strokes my face and re-assures me he’ll get the stain out. 

This was my Thursday morning. 

I was hoping I was pregnant, so I mourned my bleeding uterus by wearing a black bohemian dress, crushed blue velvet tights and sandals. 

When did I become this person? 

I am an upgraded version of myself. 

A version I was adamant on never becoming. 

I smoke a couple of cigarettes before I head to work, eat some fruit that my thoughtful husband cut up for me and thank him by sucking his beautiful cock and having him come in my mouth. 

1.2 billion of his children now swim in my belly. 

I love him. 

I park and know that when 4:30 p.m. rolls around, I will have forgotten where it is that I parked my electric blue car. 

There are meetings and lay-offs and bad coffee and people from the sales department that look like Russian serial-killers & Cher drag queens. There are bitter old yogis who have been on too many Ayahuasca trips and uptight men in bad unironed suits. I eat cashews for breakfast and stare at my screen that loads at the pace of a dying turtle. 

I want to be home, writing, making love, writing, making love, napping, smoking, taking strolls hand-in-hand with my new husband, writing…

Instead, we’re inside the “war room” talking about the future of our jobs, and the eventual changes that feel like impending doom. I stand in the corner because that’s where I belong, hidden and opaque. 

I ask the hard questions because everyone is too scared to speak up. 

“Will we be compensated monetarily if we take on a larger load?”

“Why are you making us wait till June 30th to determine our fate in this company?”

People laugh nervously and I bleed onto my adult diaper. 

I am a warrior, I think to myself. 

A beautiful bloody warrior queen. 

The kind that moves effortlessly through office halls and goes home to oil portraits her talented husband has painted of her.

It’s a good life when I’m not on the 9th floor on Brand Blvd.

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