(Enter Lady Macbeth, in her nightgown, with a candle, alone.)
Twelve moons have passed ‘cross the starry heav’ns
Three hundr’d sixty four suns set and risen.
Me thought the bloody flow had ended, and
That my self same self, so long govern’d by Artemis
Since nigh the calendar marked my thirteenth year,
Was free of monthly rages, cravings and
Pungent rags; and yet
What stains my garment now so vile and red?
How this return now messes with my head.
My temper flares like a flame, white and hot
The gore upon my pants; Out, out damned spot!
Mistress, why curse you so?
Ay, curse I will and curse I have still. The cruelty of it all.
For I had thought this effluence no more.
And yet, as thy wyrd sisters did foretell:
“If thy courses return before a year hath passed,
We’ll bet our worldly goods;
You’ll be reaching for thy liquor’d flask
Thou art not out of the bleeding woods.”
To give advice both diabolical and gynecological.
Though they be strange, they be accurate.
Shall I, with this return’d torrent of crimson,
Call forth the platters ladened with the dim sum?
Nay my Lord. For though I do wish it,
With the ceasing of my flow did come
The expansion of my girth.
And as I recall, the crones had words for this as well.
“Take care the morsels placed within thy gob
Else watch thy flesh resolve into a blob
Bubble, bubble, toil and trouble
See thy dress size more than double.”
I am impressed; the horrible hags provide wisdom
In both sedition and nutrition.
Indeed my Thane.
And yet methinks thou misinterprets the terrible termagants’ tattlings.
I believe they meant…
Mansplain not, Cawdor. Else feel my fleshy flesh upon thy jowly jowls.
What ho, my Lady Hormonal, no need for such foul threats.
My mind doth turn to bloody thoughts, I do confess.
For all around me do annoy.
Mayhaps ’tis time to lay waste to someone or something…
A trusted confidant perhaps? A king?
The Solstice is upon us, Lady.
Thou know’st any unnatural deed
Committed before the return of the light
Brings down a horrible hex upon any
Who dare desecrate Helios’ sacred rite.
Screw thy holidays to the sticking point,
Thou pusillanimous sack of shit!
I am already cursed.
What care I for thy pagan’s creed?
If thou wilt not conspire with me
I’ll seek the counsel of thy three feisty fustilarians.
Perhaps they can brew an elixir to stem
This abhorrent flux
That so bedevils me again
And drives me near to madness.
Near, my Lady Pissedoff? This is not the first time
Thy ‘havior hath erupted like Vesuvius
I do recall the All Hallows Eve day when thy mood turned…
(Sets Macbeth on fire with her candle)