crevette: (Av8trixGodSaveMe!)
Memo

To: Irene
From: Uterus
RE: Tomorrow


Irene:

Uhm, hi. I know we haven't talked recently so I wanted to just drop a line.

Listen, I know we've had a few rough times but I really want you to think long and hard about having this procedure tomorrow. It's a permanent thing, you know. It'll hurt. There are risks with General Anethesia.

I admit it. I'm pretty concerned and I think we need to talk.

Love,

Uterus.

******

Memo

To: Uterus
From: Irene
RE: Did you hear something?


Uterus:

Lalalalala. La. La la la. Not listening. La la la.

Irene

**************

Memo

To: Irene
From: Uterus
RE: Come on. Have a heart.


Irene:

Come on. I know you said you weren't talking to me any more, but I know you were just kidding. Seriously, we've been together for so long that we're like peas and carrots. Chocolate and peanut butter. Care Bear anus and Fluff.

Just talk to me.

Uterus.

****************

Memo

To: Uterus
From: Irene
RE: That buzzing sound is annoying...


Uterus:

Hmmmm Hmmmm Hmmmm. Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.... Not listening. A B C D E F G. H I J K ELEMENO P.

Irene

PS: I loathe peanut butter. If you'd bothered making this kind of overture about eight years ago we wouldn't have come to this nasty business.

*************

Memo

To: Irene
From: Uterus
RE: MY IMMINENT DEATH/BEING MAIMED


Irene:

I am shattered. I cannot believe you're actually going to go through with this and not say a word to me. Damn it, I deserve better than this. I gave you a child. I functioned without problems for YEARS. And now that I've developed a few issues you're going to kick me to the curb?

Christ, you'd think with a society that allow Lindsey Lohan to put a turnstile in the doorway of rehab that you'd be willing to give me another chance. I'm willing to work with you, but you're not willing to give me the time of day. You're going to lay there and sleep while they make a stew out of my insides.

You're a reprehensible human being.

Uterus.

*****

Memo

To: Uterus
From: Irene
RE: Did you say something?


Uterus:

Lalalalala.

Although to be technical stewing is done over low heat for a long period of time. Maybe we should classify it as a braise?

No. Braising is browned in fat first and then cooked on fluid over low heat for an extended period of time.

Poaching? No. That's not it since it's cooked from just under boiling to a simmer. And there isn't going to be any court boullion in my hoo-hoo.

Hmmm. Fricassee? No. That involves cooking in a gravy.

A sweat? No, even though you're sweating about it, there's no fat and salt involved in bringing the moisture out of the food. Same with a Sautee.

I'd have to go with plain old boiling. Yeah. Boiling works.

Bitch.

Irene

************


Memo

To: Irene
From: Uterus
RE: THE FUCK????


Irene:

Excuse me. The only time I normally get heat applied to me is when you're watching the Director's cut of Kingdom of Heaven, when you're seeing Neil Gaiman with a panda on his lap, or when your favorite vibrator shorts out.

Saying I'm not comfortable with the idea is an UNDERSTATEMENT. I'm looking to you for a little reassurance and I get a fucking COOKING LESSON. YOUR CROTCH IS NOT THE SET FOR 'GOOD EATS'. AND STOP SNICKERING AT THAT.

FUCK YOU. AND FUCK ALTON BROWN. AND FUCK EVERYONE.

I'M NOT GOING DOWN EASY, YOU BITCH. I'M GOING TO SCALE THE NEAREST BELL TOWER WITH A SNIPER RIFLE. I HAVE CLOTS AND I'M NOT AFRAID TO USE THEM.

FUCK YOU!

Uterus.

PS: FUCK YOU.

******

5:45 AM tomorrow.

Heh.
crevette: (Self-rimming--Cgwriting)
Okay, so consultation went well, I suppose.


I talked to the doctor, explained I've been actively bleeding for the past two weeks, explained about the loss of five pairs of panties and two pairs of pants in a 36 hour period.

I asked if there was a way to take out my uterus, give it to a taxidermist to have it stuffed and made into a punching bag so that I could nail it to the wall and viciously punch it a few times before I left for work every morning.

They laughed at me. I guess they don't realize how serious I was.

Anyways, they then had to do something called an 'endometrial biopsy' to be sure that everything was okay and there was no cancer that would be boiled away.

I just looked at her funny and she said, "Not like you'd think it's a bad thing, but that's not the way to treat cancer."

Okay, then.

The procedure consists of them 'washing' your cervix with iodine, and then taking a stiff drinking straw and sticking it through your cervix into your uterus.

For those sort of shaky on the biology aspect, the cervix is a firm muscle that basically feels like the tip of your nose. It opens slightly during orgasm and during menustration, but mostly remains shut tight as tupperware except when you are birthing a baby when it dilates to ten centimeters.

Mind you, birthing a baby hurts because of contractions. Contractions are caused by the cervix dilating. Cramps during your period hurt because the cervix dilates.

Ergo, someone shoving something up your cervix when it is not wanting to be open = PAIN.

Then, not only do they stick said stiff straw THROUGH your closed cervix, they use the end of said straw to POKE HOLES in the lining of your uterus all around. Poke poke poke poke pokity mcPOKE. Said poking also hurts like a son of a bitch.

Then they take out the straw and tap BLOODY CHUNKS of your uterus into a vial so they can get it tested. BIG BLOODY CHUNKS.

Mind you, I wouldn't care much that they turned my uterus into an internal bag of Capri Sun except that IT IS STILL ATTACHED. AND IT FUCKING HURTS.

So I am in pain right now. And bitchy.

But happy because my ablation has been scheduled for 8/29. YAY!!!

COUNTDOWN, BABY.
crevette: (KISSES NOW!!)
I can hear my uterus laughing at me from here, the little bitch.

The score currently stands at:

Uterus: 5
Irene: 0

Four, count 'em FOUR pairs of lacy unmentionables in less than 24 hours. One pair of dress slacks which are now currently hanging to dry on my bookshelf in my office while I wear my slightly damp and funky workout shorts from this morning. (black spandex that look rather kicky with my black pumps. ::sigh::)

On top of it all, the dirty little trick of tying (How? With the fallopian tubes?) the wings of my pad together on the underside of my panties, which when pulled off with great vigor in my fit of killing rage caused said pad to explode in a cloud of white cotton and soppy red bloody chunks that flew everywhere.

Like a cruel PiƱata done up by a serial killer. With no candy. Just bloody chunks. And maybe Starlight Mints. Because those suck almost as bad as bloody chunks and hurt more when they hit you. (but there were no mints in my pad, woe is me. Not like I'd eat them from there anyway. Ew. But I digress...)

So I had to wash my pants, mop up the floor in the handicapped stall in the bathroom, clean the toilet (don't ask) and then walk back to my desk in dripping wet slacks and change into aforementioned funky shorts.

I'm going in for ablation consultation Thursday and IT CANNOT COME FAST ENOUGH.

I had some doubts about the loss of fertility (WHY????) but between the birthday party at Rational Sister's house with about thirty children under the age of five and this weekend, I HAVE NO DOUBTS THAT I WANT THIS BITCH DEAD DEAD DEAD.

I may just have to fish the bitch out myself with a coathanger at this point.
crevette: (magicalmuscularcrotch!)
Memo

To: Uterus
From: Irene
RE: Our relationship


Uterus:

I feel compelled to write you today for many reasons. I've been pondering the discussion that I had with the Gyno about you last week and up until yesterday was willing to make any concession possible to make you stay.

I'm serious. I was hurt and shocked to find out that you'd already started making arrangements to leave. I know we've had a relationship that could best be described as tense but still... The thought of you purposefully trying to actually prolapse, drop out of my body and leave made me pause and think on the last (almost) 39 years that we've had together.

Sure, they've been rough at times. I admit that I'm not an easy woman to live in. But we've had good times too, haven't we? I mean, there were the first fourteen years, before you started functioning. Those were GREAT years. We grew up together, talked on the phone with other young girls and their uteri. We watched Scooby-Do and ate Life cereal every Saturday morning--and we both hated Scrappy-Do together.

Then when you first started functioning, we were good together. There we were, in the first blush of womanhood. We had a few off moments, but mostly we were hand in glove, or organ in abdomen, if you will. You taught me how to go swimming and horseback ride with a Tampax. I kept you safe from having Barry Waldron's babies (thank GOD for that). We were a team, and a damned good one at that.

And don't forget Liv. If it wasn't for you, (as well as [livejournal.com profile] major_thom4321 and a pair of thigh high stockings) I wouldn't have that wonderful child.

It's just been the past few years we've been having problems. And I was willing to work to convince you to stay. The Doctor said I needed to do special exercises, and I was doing them. The Doctor said no heavy weights, and I made [livejournal.com profile] major_thom4321 carry everything. The Doctor said no more straining to go to the bathroom, and I started mainlining fiber. I was willing to do everything and anything to keep you around (short of wearing a Pessary. That's just a whole world of NO for me.). I'm serious. I was willing to undergo couples counseling so that you'd be willing to grow old with me. I figured, you're only at a stage one prolapse. We've got lots of time, we can work things out, we've only just begun.

That was until yesterday. Uterus, I need to just throw down for the record that while you might think of it as reaching a new personal best, ruining four pairs of (nice) panties, a set of queen sized high thread count sheets, two bath mats and possibly one incredibly moronic and unfortunate in choice of sleeping location cat is just a tad annoying for me. And emotionally disturbing for the cat, I might add. Doing all of the above in less than a twenty four hour period is--dare I say it--INSANELY OVERDOING IT.

At first I was afraid, I was petrified. Kept thinking that I could never live without you inside. But then I spent last night thinking how you did me wrong, and I grew strong and I'll learn how to get along.

Go on now, go walk out the door. Just turn around now 'cause you're not welcome any more. I will survive. As long as I know there are hormone patches, I know I will stay alive. I've got all my life to live, and I'll get Orlando Bloom to jizz, and I'll survive! (Hey-hey)

Good-bye is forever, bitch.

Irene

************

Memo

To: Irene
From: Uterus
RE: Our relationship


Irene:

Boy, talk about your mixed signals. You've spent the last three years verbally abusing me and threatening me with eviction. I can set my watch to you. Every twenty-eight days it's, "Wah wah wah. You hurt me. You bleed too much. You suck. I hate you. Fuck you. Wah wah wah whine whine."

Well, I'm sick of it. I'm sick and tired of being the pariah. You know, I didn't ASK to be a uterus. I just got the job. It's like you and insurance. No kid growing up ever says, "I don't want to be a fireman or an astronaut! Those are pussy jobs! I want to be an adjuster and have everyone in the world HATE ME! YAY!" And no organ says, "Oh, I can't wait to finish all my Vo-Tech courses so I can be a big, empty ball of muscles that does nothing but shit out blood and clots every month. I can't wait till someone gets me up the duff so I can expand to a BILLION times my size and then push a kid the size and shape of a lumpy bowling ball out of an opening the size of a quarter! Yay! And to think that I could have been something useless like the appendix or something. What a slacker he is!" Bitch, you think YOU have stretch marks? You never bothered to put any vitamin E or cocoa butter on me, you neglectful assclown.

And if you're going to throw down schlocky 70's lyrics at me, I'll throw down for you, bitch. Because well, I heard some people talkin' just the other day and they said you were gonna put me on a shelf. But let me tell you I got some news for you and you'll soon find out it's true and then you'll have to eat your lunch all by yourself. 'Cause I'm already gone and I'm feelin' strong! I will sing this vict'ry song, woo, hoo,hoo,woo,hoo,hoo, BITCH.

And you know what? All that stuff I do to you is for your own good. Because everything I do, I do it for you.

If you check your copy of Irene's Body Employee Handbook you'll find in Chapter 9, section 3, subparagraph a4, which states in part:

3: "Duties of Female Reproductive Organs (henceforth called FROs):

A. Functions of FROs.

4. Special Circumstances:
There will be times when Irene requires extra attention and care. Irene is by nature a sedentary woman and would rather sit around and cruise the IMDB Orlando Bloom board and read entirely too much into what she finds there instead of going to the gym. In the event of a possible breakup between Orlando Bloom and any significant other of any gender, race, species, phylum or genus, you will have to take extra care to assure that Irene maintains her current level of fitness. There are several ways to do this.

a. While she is holding a meeting with her employees, be sure to gush heavily at the most crucial moment. Make sure you make gurgling noises when you do this. Be sure to aim for the back of her pants so that even though she's wearing a pad that could cover a 350 lb Sumo wrestler, you miss all that cotton. Do it on the day that half the bathrooms in the building are out of order. This will cause Irene to get her cardio in by running from bathroom to bathroom until she finds the one not marked "Out of Order", while trying to conceal a maxi-pad the size of her head in her fist by holding it across the bloodstain on her ass. It will also give her biceps and triceps a workout because once she washes her pants and underwear out, she'll need to stand in the handicapped stall of the bathroom, naked from the waist down and clutching a wad of toilet paper between her thighs, spinning her undergarments and trousers around in circles in a retarded attempt to make them dry faster. Which won't work. See chapter 14 under "Chafing" for further details.

b. Be sure to wake her from a dead sleep at 2 AM by horking up a bloodclot the size of her head and the consistancy and color of underset black cherry Jell-O. Be sure that she is in a sleeping position that gives her the least amount of coverage with her pad. Keep gushing even as she's running so that she won't slow down. That pulse rate must be UP! Repeat again at 3 AM, 4 AM and 4:45 AM to keep things spicy.

c. If all else fails, just remember to throw out the rule book and break whatever paradigm is needed to keep Irene happy and healthy. She may resent you for this, but it's for her own good!


You can see I've just been doing my job here. But lately I've been thinking about things and I have to say that maybe there's something else out there for me. Maybe I need to change careers.

So yeah, I'm dropping out of you. I posted my resume' on Monster.com. Maybe I can get a job as another organ--something cool and hip and glam like a spleen or a pancreas. Or maybe I can just leave the internal organ industry behind and make a total change. I hear Starbucks is always looking for Baristas and they have great benefits. And really, what's the difference between high powered espresso and vaginal discharge besides the flavor and the source? I mean, really. I can call myself a "fluid engineer" and get a job somewhere else.

I'm not sorry you found out. I'm only sorry that I got caught in the act of sneaking out the door with my personal goods.

I'll be sure to not keep in touch,

Uterus.

*******


Memo

To: Uterus
From: Irene
RE: The FUCK?


Uterus:

Thank you for reminding me of those clauses in my owner's manual. But I'm quite sure not one of those clauses says a damn thing about applying Scotchguard to my maxi before you horked up that clot. That's the only explaination for how something that big and gelatinous made it into the back of my pants without leaving a single mark on the pad. Either that or the clot was doing a really bang-up impression of Jesus on the Sea of Galilee. Which I sincerely doubt.

I'm waiting for an explanation. You owe me at least that if you're going to leave me. (I was going to throw a fit and say if you were leaving it would be on MY terms, damnit, but you know I won't hold you back now. The love we had just can't be found. ::sigh::)

Irene

*****

Memo

To: Irene
From: Uterus
RE: Scotchguard ROCKS!


Irene:

Didn't you know that blood clots are completely frictionless?

Heh. Okay, so I can't say that with a straight ovary. You caught me. Yeah, that was a good one, wasn't it? Heee!

Buck up, little camper. I was going to put your hand in a pot of warm water, but the kidneys stopped me. They never let me do anything fun, the little suck ups.

Don't worry, once I'm gone you'll look back on these memories and miss me. You'll sing sad songs like, "You don't bring me flowers... anymore..." and cry when you think about me.

And maybe I'll miss you. Once in a while.

Or not. But if you see me walking by and the tears are in my eyes, look away, baby, look away.

Yours (but not for long),

Uterus

*******

Memo

To: Uterus
From: Irene
RE: Maybe we can work this out?



Uterus:

Heh. Okay, that was a good one. I admit it.

Yeah, the kidneys always have been a tad on the wussy side, haven't they? They complain ENDLESSLY when I'm out partying and drinking and shit. The little losers. But I digress.

But let's just talk here, Wo-mano to Or-gano. See, I have really no interest in losing you, especially not in a prolapse. I really don't want you to just come dropping out one day, turning yourself inside out like a popcorn kernel made of guts. First off, it sounds pretty damned painful, and pretty damned unhygienic.

Secondly, I really hate to be the bearer of bad news and reality here, but you're an (almost) 39 year old uterus. I know that age discrimation isn't allowed but that only applies to entire people, not internal organs. No one is going to hire you. That, plus the fact that you have no hands, makes it a little difficult for you to join the job market--even as a barista.

The only thing I could possibly think of for you to do would be to join up with Carrottop and be one of his props. I suppose he could attach you to his crotch and make balloon animals out of you (::squeaky squeaky squeaky:: Look! A poodle! ::squeaky squeaky squeaky:: Now it's a giraffe!) but being in the same room with Carrottop is really a fate worse than death.

Life is very short, and there's no time for fussing and fighting, my friend. I have always thought that it's a crime, so I will ask you once again to try to see it my way. Only time will tell if I am right or I am wrong. While you see it your way there's a chance that you might fall out before too long. We can work it out. We CAN work it out.

Think it over,

Irene

PS: And just THINK of the in that I'll have with Orlando Bloom: Dear Orlando: I know you're always into helping out your fellow man and into charity and all that good soul expanding and humanitarian shit. You're a good person and I know you want to help as many people as you can.

Well, I need your help. My uterus is prolapsing and I need help shoving it back up where it belongs. This will require multiple applications of a fleshy rod of approximately 8 or so inches in length and 2 or 3 inches in girth in a back and forth motion at high velocity and force, usually with my ankles duct taped to my thighs (for medicinal purposes only, of course). My doctor has prescribed this physical therapy for three or four times a week.

I know this is forward, but Orlando-Wan-Kenobi, you're my only hope. Give a girl a hand (or a third leg as it were--natch.)


How can he turn THAT heartfelt plea down, I ask you?

Think. Think it over before you walk away.


*******

Memo

To: Irene
From: Uterus
RE: You really are a sick fuck, aren't you?


Irene:

I truly do mean the header, too. It ALWAYS comes down to Orlando with you, doesn't it?

::sigh::

Fine. Let's do lunch.

But none of that nasty diet food you keep making the taste buds pretend to like. I'm talking China City, babe. If you want me to stay, you have to pay!

Yours (for now),

Uterus.
crevette: (New Groove/Flea)
Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
RE: Vegas Trip
Urgency: IMMEDIATE

Uterus:

It has come to my attention that you are preparing to start your normal monthly functioning. You might ask how I have become aware of this. I would be compelled to answer that since my pants no longer fit, my breasts hurt to be looked at--even indirectly and through the mirror's reflection on an off-hand side--and the fact that I am eating everything in the house that has not been nailed down, I have a sneaking suspicion that you are gearing up for an old-fashioned, boy-howdie hoe down.

I understand that this is part of your normal functioning. I realize that this must be done. Even if we don't see eye to eye on the method of how you do this, I realize that the end result is necessary to my health and welfare. I appreciate you doing so much to keep my body running smoothly. I really do.

That said, I'm leaving for Vegas on Friday morning. I'd really like to be able to have this all over and done with before I get on the plane. I don't think it's too much to ask for, really. I mean, it's a wedding for Chrissake. I shouldn't have to spend one of my dearest and most precious friend's wedding curled up into a fetal pain-warding position with what feels like a live sheep stuffed between my thighs. Do a girl a solid. Just get this over with, with ya?

Thanks for your (in)consideration.

Irene

******

Memo

To:
Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
RE: Vegas Trip
Urgency: IMMEDIATE, in your dreams.

Irene,

Thanks for the lovely letter. I always enjoy hearing from you. Your snarky little comments always make my day. Really.

As for your request, I must refer you to the employee handbook of Irene's Body, chapter 7, REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS subsection 4A1 (and with special attention to 4A2) which states in part, and I quote:

4: In order to keep Irene's body in fit aerobic condition and her mind in complete and utter clarity, Female Reproductive Organs (Henceforth called FROs) are empowered to deviate from the aforementioned 28 day cycle at a moment's notice "as needed". "As needed" is listed, but not limited to below.

A. Any time Irene finds herself in:

1. A foreign country, city, timezone. A foreign OR domestic person's house, as long as it is not her own. A special occasion such as a wedding, funeral, baptism, Bar Mitzvah, Bat Mitzvah, First Communion, Confirmation, State of Clear Ceremony, Neighborhood Block Party, run to the liqour store--whether everyone is foreign or not.

2. An airplane bathroom. Be sure that this is a minimum of at least a three hour flight, that alcohol is not served on this flight, and that the bathroom is so small that the only way she can possibly insert a tampon is either by opening the door and putting one ankle on the stewardess's shoulder or by reclining spread eagle on the sink and bracing her Labia Majora against the far wall to wait for the proper amount of turbulence to push that Platex puppy in.


As you can see, I'm functioning perfectly within my guidelines, and I'm doing in in your best interests. I'm sorry I can't help you, but everything I do, I do for you.

Looking forward to painting the town red with you,

Uterus.

******

Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
RE: Vegas Trip
Urgency: IMMEDIATE!!! LIKE NOW!!!

Uterus, or would that be BITCH:

I'm serious. The last thing I need is for you to kick into high gear at 30,000 feet. Not only am I looking at the logistical problems of packing that many female hygeine products in with my laptop and DVDs, (and probably having them all fall out when I pull out my laptop to be Xrayed) but also the simple fact that with the mood you put me in I'm likely to be mistaken for a surly terrorist type. Even if I make it through the patdown without tearing off some poor TSA employee's head, I'll probably end up being shot by an Air Marshal as I run screaming to the bathroom at the front of the plane with blood gushing out like a broken sprinkler head. I don't see how that helps you maintain my functioning in any way, shape or form.

Please reconsider. I really, really want to enjoy myself in Vegas.

Irene

*******

Memo

To:
Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
RE: Vegas Trip
Urgency: Not really.

Irene:

My, what an overactive imagination you have. If I recall correctly, you LIKE getting stripsearched and the patdowns count as foreplay for your skank ass.

You need to just accept that I *AM* going to Vegas with you, and I *AM* going to be discharging not only my duties but several gallons of viscous blood with the occasional Texas sized chunk for variety. I can't help it if you like the window seats on the planes. It's not my fault that you pen yourself in. You'd think you'd have learned by now to take the aisle, you dumb bitch.

And look at it this way: I'm your perfect Vegas partner, not [livejournal.com profile] janesy. Play Roulette and bet on red. Even if the ball lands on black, it'll be red before I get done with it. EVERYTHING will be red. It'll be fun AND profitable.

And I've always wanted to spend quality time with you, Irene. You and me at the Grand Canyon together. Just how bitchin' is that? So what if you're only allowed an 8x11 bag with you for security reasons. You'll just have to McGuyver feminine hygiene products the way the ancient Native American tribes did. Surely you're up for the Spirit Quest that awaits!

And let's just say that your spouse [livejournal.com profile] major_thom4321 will be ECSTATIC that you and I are taking this time to bond away from home. He'll be so pleased that we're not home... I mean that we'll be off on grand adventures together... BONDING. We'll be Blood Brothers. Hermanos. Bestest Buds ever.

Really, I think you're overreacting. I'm not even that upset with you for doing that ten mile bike ride yesterday and trying to bounce me out. By the way, that's anatomically impossible, not that you've read anything containing female anatomy since you've gotten hooked on Orlando Bloom fanfic.

So let's get through this together,

Love and Kisses,

uterus


**************

To: Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
RE: Vegas Trip
Urgency: I hate you.

Uterus, or as I call you to myself, "You God Damned Fucking Piece of Fucking Wasted Muscle Shit Face Doucheweasel Cuntbubble Assclown Bitch":

I hate you. I hate you with the fire of a thousand suns. I hate you beyond all hating things. I don't need you. I've had my baby. I'm ready to stop production ANY TIME NOW and you just don't seem to be getting the hint that the lease you signed when you moved into my body is up and I am going to start legal proceedings to EVICT YOUR ASS.

I swear to you I am going to find some way to get you removed, even if I have to go through my left nostril with a coathanger.

GRRR!

Irene


PS. I HATE YOU.


************

Memo

To:
Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
RE: Vegas Trip
Urgency: Not really.

Irene:


Awww. Is poor Booba getting mad? Aww. Poor widdle booba is kicking her feet and having a fit because she doesn't want me to go to Vegas with her and make her all hurting and bloody and messy and smelly? Poor widdle booba.

Go on. Cry for me, Bitch. Cry.

Your tears warm the cockles of my heart. I live for your pain. Your agony gives me joy. If I had fingers, I'd be fingering myself right now.

Gods, I love my job.

Needing a cold shower now,

Uterus.

************

To: Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
RE: Vegas Trip
Urgency: I hate you.

Uterus:

... .... .... ... Fine. But you sleep on the floor. And if you snore, your ass is sleeping in the bathtub.

Bitch.

Still hating you,


Irene
crevette: (Default)
Memo

To: Uterus
From: Irene
RE: Impending Explosion
Priority: URGENT


Uterus:

It has come to my attention that you are gearing up--to put it vulgarly--to blow. I can tell because my breasts are so tender that passing vehicles are setting them off, much like an over-sensitive car alarm.

I certainly can understand your eagerness to blow at this time. I'm several thousand miles from home, in a different time zone, in a different climate zone, in an area where people eat things like 'deep fried cheese curds' and 'sharp american cheese'. I'd find it tempting too.

But in the name of all that's holy, can you please, please, please find it in your shriveled, blackened metaphoracal heart to not explode until Tuesday?

If you go now, you're going to go when I'm surrounded by really neat people of the writing world. Running to change pads every fifteen minutes while you're listening to a panel by people you adore--so not fun.

Admittedly, the group of aspiring horror writers here would no doubt be intrigued and fascinated by the firehose O'Gore, but I'd really rather not deal with that. Some of the men following that track are rather creepy.

And then I'll be on a plane. I can't explode on a plane. Trying to do anything in an airplane bathroom, much less contort and put on a pad without accidently sticking it to my forehead with my panty protecting wings doubling as ear flaps is really quite unpleasant.

So, do a girl a solid...

Love and Kisses,

Irene

Memo

To: Irene
From: Uterus
RE: Gusher Time
Prioraty: Hardly


Irene:

After review of your heartfelt memo and a complete review of the Handbook To Irene's Body, I'm afraid that I can't make any promises about my behavior.

Please refer to chapter 7 of your copy of Handbook to Irene's Body, subsection 3A2 under Fully Functional Female Reproductive Organs henceforth called FROs:

3 Under no circumstance shall a FRO make any commitment to hold forth or withhold normal functioning for

A Any special occasion, including:
2. Meetings of celebrities, people you admire, people you'd like to admire, people you'd like to sleep with, people you'd like to consider sleeping with in an admiring way, people in general, small children, forest creatures and general livestock (that you do or do not wish to sleep with in or not in an admiring way).


As you can see, you're basically screwed. I'm quite sure I don't need to point you to paragraph 4C which states in part:

In no way, shape or form with a FRO under any circumstance agree to a set time to begin functioning. Schedules are forbidden because they will cause Irene to grow complacent and at ease with the functioning of her FROs. As we all know, Irene is under no circumstance to ever be comfortable with her FROs. The air of desperate fear gives her enhanced cardiac health, and adds a lovely pink tinge to her cheeks and terrified glint to her eyes.

I'm sure you understand my position. All I can say to you, in the kindest way possible, is "How long can you tread water?"

Sincerely,

Uterus

Memo
To: Uterus
From: Irene
RE: FUCK YOU
Priority: NOW, BITCH. NOW.



Uterus, or is that FUCKING BITCH?

1. You suck.

2. Other women have periods they can set their watches by. What the hell makes you think that you can so so fucking smug about this? You're nothing but a goddamned internal organ, a disposable one at that. I think you over-estimate your value to my physical health because I'm quite sure I can continue functioning just fine without you. To be bluntly honest, the only reason I'd ever want to use you again is if I ran in to Orlando Bloom and he agreed to father beautiful hair babies on me.

And you've got me thinking that even then I should be looking for a donor uterus, maybe one with a nicer disposition.

3. You suck even more.

Love and Kisses,

Irene.


Memo

To: Irene
From: Uterus
RE: Did I mention I'd be making you HURT????
Priority: HA!


Irene:

While I certainly appreciate your negative feelings, you can go fuck yourself. Sideways.

Just because other women have perfectly time cycles does not mean that I will do so. If every uterus jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you want me to do the same?

Wait, don't answer that.

Regardless, you ain't getting normal cycles. You ain't getting lighter cycles. You ain't getting nothing but pain, clots the size of your head, and the ruin of an entire wardrobe.

Love you too,

Uterus

Memo:

To: Uterus
From: Irene



Uterus:

You suck.

Sincerely,

Irene
crevette: (Default)
Memo

To: Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Urgency: Immediate


Uterus:

It has come to my attention that you are preparing to make me miserable for another week. I am requesting that you go ahead and start this now so that everything will be completely out of my system by May 6 for the wild girl's weekend and the premiere of Kingdom of Heaven.

I know that our relationship in the past could best be described as contentious, but I don't feel this is an unreasonable request. I'm not even asking you to moderate the pain or not turn my vagina into a fire hose O' gore. I'm just asking that you expedite your normal sadistic functioning.

I stand prepared for you to commence my agony as soon as possible.

Irene

****************

Memo

To: Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
Urgency: Not as important as you might think


Irene,

I must advise you that I am unable to acquiesce to your request. I refer you once again and as always with these conversations to Irene's Body Employee Handbook. This time Chapter 9, section 3, subparagraph a2, which states in part:

3: "Duties of Female Reproductive Organs (henceforth called FROs):

A. Functions of FROs.

2. Scheduling:
Menses are scheduled to begin every 28 days. However, if there is a special occasion or an especially important happening the FROs reserve the right to delay onset of menses until the most inopportune moment possible. This includes weddings, funerals, parties, vacations, nights where the offspring is at sleepovers and Star Trek is a repeat, days where Irene starts off in a good mood, days where Irene is wearing white pants, days where Irene is wearing pretty underwear and so forth. The FROs have full authority to do this at any time they see fit. The purpose of such activity is two fold. One is to maintain Irene's aerobic fitness by making her dash to the bathroom at top speed to preserve her clothing. The other is to keep her mental acuity and creativity at peak levels by forcing her to assemble feminine hygiene products out of ordinary office supplies."


Irene, as you can see my fallopian tubes are figuratively tied. So sorry. Really.

In other words, I'll start when I'm damned good and ready and not a moment before.

Sincerely,

Irene's Uterus

***********

Memo

To: Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Urgency: Extremely Immediate


Uterus:

C'mon. All I'm asking for is for you to cut me a break. I don't think I'm being unreasonable.

Look, I even made it worth your while. I wore my prettiest pair of cheeky panties and my white pants.

How can you resist such temptation? White pants. Pretty lace. I know you've wanted to ruin these pants for years. Now I give you the opportunity to do your worst. Just get started and get over with before next Thursday and you can have your wicked way with them.

And let's not forget the panties. I know you want to blow clots into the lace and make it so I have to throw them away. I feel how disappointed you are every month when I pull out the old, stained cotton panties for a week. Well, not today! Today, you get the best! It's like going from a plastic red and white checkered tablecloth on a trestle table at Sonny's BBQ and moving up to the white linen at a fancy French restaurant.

All you have to do to enjoy a smorgasbord of bloody destruction is just start. Two for the price of one!

C'mon. Be a sport. You can do it, Duffy Moon!

Love and Kisses,

Irene

**************
Memo

To: Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
Urgency: Bitch, Puh-lese.


Irene,

Tempting... but no.

Sincerely,

Uterus.

***********

Memo

To: Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Urgency: You have got to be fucking kidding me.


Uterus, or is that BITCH:

Excuse me? Excuse me? What the fuck is this "Tempting... but No" shit? I offer you the fucking world, and you blow me off?

What the Hell crawled up your metaphorical ass and died?

No love,

Irene

**************

Memo

To: Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
Urgency: None at all.


Irene,

Let's just get this straight. I know what your plans are for next weekend. I know they involve a movie starring Orlando Bloom sporting 20 lbs more muscle mass than "Troy" and a fine layer of grime. I know that this movie exceeds 2 hours and contains a flash of a nude scene.

That, combined with our less than harmonious history equals a premeditated plot to cause me dire injury and harm. I know you, you scheming bitch.

Well, I'm on to you. I can tell you right now that I refuse to explode at any time during that movie, no matter how much alcohol and estrogen you ply me with.

I refuse to clench up like I did after "Troy". You have no clue how painful and humiliating that was. The Spleen *STILL* blows shit at me about that, and if I get one more snide comment from the Gall Bladder, I'm going to cockslap that bitch into the middle of next week.

I'm holding on to everything I can here. If I have to shoot out a geyser of blood on the movie screen to keep you from being able to see that damned movie, I'm going to do it. This is Survivor, Bitch, and you are so off the island.

Sincerely,

Uterus

****************

Memo

To: Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Urgency: Extreme


Uterus:

I can arrange it so that you attend "Kingdom of Heaven" in a Ziploc (tm) storage baggie.

Think it over. Carefully.

Fuck you dead,

Irene

*************

Memo

To: Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
Urgency: You wish


Bring it on, Bitch.

Bring. It. On.

Sincerely,

Uterus
crevette: (magicalmuscularcrotch!)
Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Priority: Urgent

Uterus:

I know we've had this discussion before, but I thought we should try to come to some kind of agreement--detente if you will.

I'm really, really, really getting sick of this. The bloating, the flooding out, the cramping, the nipples that can detect changes in barometric pressure, all of it.

Once again, I feel compelled to point out that it really has been a recent development--all of this stuff. Is there some reason that you keep doing this to me month after month? Do you hate me THAT much?

Irene

******

Memo

To:
Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
Priority: Urgent

Irene,

Hate doesn't come into it. I'm simply performing my function as a fully-functional FRO (Female Reproductive Organ). All of us FROs down here in FROville are devoted and loyal employees of Irene's Body, Inc. and work as hard as possible to provide you with the most realistic and complete experience of being a human female. We want you to be healthy and happy.

It's in the handbook. Read it sometime.

Uterus

PS: I am NOT responsible for The Brain cueing up Shania Twain's "It's Good To Be A Woman" on constant repeat in your skull every 28 days.

Not even I'm THAT cruel.


*****

Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Priority: Urgent


Uterus:

If you and all the lovely little FROs were such great, hardworking female organs, then why can't I have multiple orgasms? HUH? HUH? Answer that one, motherfucker.

If you guys worked so damn hard to make me happy, I'd have Orlando Fucking Bloom tied up in my Fallopian Tubes underneath the Goddamned Fucking Christmas Tree.

You suck,

Irene

*****

Memo

To:
Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
Priority: Urgent

Irene,

Orlando Bloom AGAIN? You FREAK. I'm sick of you making me twitch every time you see a new picture of him, FREAK.

You realize that when your own internal organs think you're a freak, it really is time to seek help, right?

You'll have to talk to The Clitoris about your non-mental issues. I just work here.

Uterus.


******

Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Priority: Urgent

Uterus:

You suck. You fucking suck. You are the fucknugget cocksucker extroidinare and I HATE HATE HATE you. I would so get a weaselly looking man named "Guido" to come and break your kneecaps--provided you were an organ that actually HAD kneecaps, mind you. Since you don't have kneecaps, I'll have to find other ways to make you miserable--like... like... like... crap. I don't know what I can do to you that won't hurt me, but I won't stop pondering it!

Remember: The thought is what counts, and right now I'm thinking of you pried out with a rusty pair of pliers and splatting against the far wall, bitch.

Love and Kisses,

Irene

******

Memo

To:
Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
Priority: Urgent
Irene,

I think you're forgetting who is in a position of power here. Keep this shit up and I'll make you feel like you're in the process of digesting ground glass, razor blades and rat poison.

I'll destroy every pair of underwear you own, along with your nice 300 count cotton sheets and your lovely comforter you tend to sleep on top of. You think you've got chunks and clots now? You've seen NOTHING, heifer.

And you know how your sweet little stupid lead-paint-chip eating tard kitten likes to sleep in between your legs at night? All it takes is one high pressure concentrated gush, and she's history.

I really think you need to reconsider your previous memo.

Uterus

******

Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Priority: Urgent


::meep::

I hate you. I fucking hate you. Fuck you dead.

Irene
crevette: (buttpuppet)
Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Priority: Urgent

Uterus:

I know that it is very irregular to send you a note directly, but I really am having issues with your operation the past few months, and specifically this past week.

I don't think that your function is supposed to include having me bloat to over twice my normal size. I know that you do this so that I can bleed out three times my normal fluid volume each hour without a sudden loss in blood pressure, but is it really necessary that I do that? You didn't feel the need to do that for the first fifteen years of menstruation. Why now? Why must my vagina be a full blown firehose of gore? And what's up with this cramping? I just don't see the need to make me feel like I'm in transition labor, trying to birth something the size of The Rock--dressed in combat boots and full on studded bondage gear.

All I ask is that you modulate the blood flow and bloating to the level I was at when I was 27. And stop the cramps. I don't think that's much to ask, and it seemed to suit you fine ten years ago.

Sincerely,

Irene

****

Memo

To:
Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
Priority: Urgent

Irene,

Thank you for your memo, but I am unable to acquiesce to your request.

If you will refer to the Irene's Body, INC. Employee Handbook, under "Duties of the Uterus", Page 439, Section II, subsection c, sub-subsection 1, you will find that I am acting in strictest accord with my duties as a fully functional female reproductive organ (FRO). I quote:

"Female Reproductive Organs (Henceforth called FROs) and their duties:

C. In times of Irene suffering great stress and instability, you may be called upon to cause Irene even greater stress by skipping your monthly menstrual cycle for a period of no less than three weeks and no greater than sixteen weeks. You are to perform this duty no less than three times a year. This will result in Irene having complete and utter panic attacks on a normal basis. Due to her lack of exercise, this is necessary to keep her heart at its aerobic best.

1. In case of the possibility that Irene's husband (aka sperm donor) gets a vasectomy, you will be required to cause Irene stress in other ways. Since she will no longer be concerned that she might be pregnant except for the slight worry of picking up free range sperm from a filling station toilet seat or a psychosomatic (note emphasis on 'psycho') pregnancy from her many deeply disturbing and naughty erotic dreams about Orlando Bloom, there must be some other way to make her miserable. The board suggests excessive bloating, mood swings, exceedingly painful ovulation, cramping that makes her curl up into a fetal position and cry like a girl and breasts that are so sensitive that her nipples can sense changes in barometric pressure and predict incoming storms."


As you can see, I am acting in your best welfare. You simply aren't miserable enough with all the illnesses in your family, your husband's excessive emotional baggage, your child's impending puberty, your financial woes, the fact that the adult onset acne has caused you to look like a leper, or the fact that you work in a shithole beyond all shitholes. You must have more stress.

The amount of blood you're losing right now is unfortunate, but it is for your own good. Buck up, little camper.

Sincerely,

Uterus.

*****

Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Priority: Urgent

Uterus,

I can read the Employee handbook as well as any other part of my body, but I'm sick of this. I can't deal with flooding out any more. I'm tired of having my underwear look like a Mafia hit gone horribly wrong. I'm sick of leaving bloody streaks on the toilet seat that look like something is trying to crawl its way back up through my pipes. I can't deal with having a band of Hell's Angel's kicking me in the gut repeatedly. I. Can't. Deal.

This is your final warning. If you continue this way, I will talk to my Gyno at my next visit and convince her that not only you but all my Female Reproductive Organs (FROs) need to go. I'll have you all removed and replace you with a very nice and non hurting patch that I can change out once a week. I don't care if it's made from mare urine. Anything has to be better than this. I'm sure you don't want to see your good friends the ovaries and the fallopian tubes hurt just because you can't behave yourself or show some restraint.

Think about this carefully.

Sincerely,

Irene

*****

Memo

To:
Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
Priority: Urgent

Irene,

You tried that last year. Your doctor likes me better than she likes you.

Suffer.

Sincerely,

Uterus

*****

Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus
From: Irene
Priority: Urgent

Uterus,

You suck. I hate you.

Fuck you. Fuck you dead. I'll do a home hysterectomy with a wire coat hanger and a rusty pair of pliers if I have to. I will. I really will. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.

Sincerely, and Fuck you,

Irene

P.S. Fuck you

*****


Memo

To:
Irene
From: Irene's Uterus
CC: The Hand
Priority: Urgent

Irene,

Talk to the hand.

Sincerely,

Uterus

*******

Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus ; Irene
From: The Hand
CC: The Eyes
Priority: Urgent

Dudes, leave me out of this. Although I have to admit that I'm mightily skeeved out whenever I have to touch one of those nasty pads, you don't hear me complaining. Probably because I don't have a mouth. But still, it is pretty nasty, Uterus.

Maybe you could just be a sport about it and loosen up on her. If not for her, then for me and the eyes. Both of us have been traumatized by this entire thing. And I'm not even going to bring up the Thighs. They won't even talk after the last "accident". All they do is sit there in a fetal position and rock back and forth.

Be a bud.

Sincerely,

The Hand

******

Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus ; Irene ; The Hand
From: The Eyes
Priority: Urgent

I don't know about you guys, but I'm sick of looking at that stuff too. I'm making Irene's vision worse and worse every month, not because she's getting old and her eyes are degenerating. No. Because I can't stand to look at what the Uterus vomits out every month.

Get your acts together or I'll make it so Irene won't be able to See Orlando Bloom when he ever gets around to doing a nude scene.

I'm not kidding.

Sincerely,

The Eyes

*******

Memo

To:
Irene's Uterus ; The Hand; The Eyes
From: Irene
Priority: Urgent

Everyone,

I fucking hate you all.

Die, die, die. Fuck you all dead.

I am now going to lie down with a heating pad and figure out how I can live without any of you.

Sincerely,

Irene

P.S. Fuck you all dead.
crevette: (newelf)
Can I just say that I've had Shania Twain running around in my head for the past 2 days now? Seriously, that song she sings about how good it is to be a woman just keeps going through my brain over and over and over. And only one line of it, because I really, really hated the song and never really listened to it... so all I keep hearing is "Oh, oh oh oh! something something yadda short skirts. Oh, oh oh oh! Something something Yadda yadda rhymes with skirts! Oh I feel like a woman!"

I am currently resisting the urge to blow my head off with a double barrelled shotgun. The only thing that has prevented me thus far is the knowledge that I wouldn't be wiping out the REAL Shania along with the fake one.

Men, don't read this unless you never want to look at a woman the same way again.... TMI Warning! )

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crevette: (Default)
crevette

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