As a woman already struggling to figure out how my body works and what to do with it, hence my need to consult conservative, white, mostly elderly men and their reproductive legislation, I’m very upset this same group, my mental shepherds and moral guardians, are taking away my pocket calendar. Gentlemen, if I can’t comprehend and make decisions about my body, how do you expect me to grasp a concept as complex as time, especially time broken down into units? That’s crazy.
Yes, I have a phone. But what if its battery dies? Yes, I have a wristwatch too – but I can’t read it. It’s just for style, and it doesn’t even have numbers on it. What if there’s one of these electro-magnetic pulses you all talk so much about, and obese Chinese hackers bring down the grid? Donald Trump has said it himself – you can only trust messages rendered on good old-fashioned paper. Following this logic, I purchased a wall calendar, but it took me two months to realize I’d hung it upside down. I thought all the horses were supposed to be on their backs, falling into the sky. And honestly, you can’t expect me to handle all those boxes. It’s too many boxes for me, a woman.
Unless I have a hormonal pill, which I ceremoniously consume once each day while looking at the day of the week printed as a tiny purple abbreviation, I swear to you on the holiest of books, I cannot tell what day it is. The only way I can understand time, and thus the universe, is through my menstrual cycle, because, once more, I’m a woman. Menstruating and procreating are critical to my identity not just within this society and country, but also to my existence in the third dimension, as well as the so-called fourth dimension, in which time is regarded as analogous to linear dimensions. If I don’t know when my period is – you guessed it – I not only bleed at random, but also cease to physically exist. I know arbitrary bleeding from the vagina upsets my mental shepherds, moral guardians, and sexual keepers, but the way my vision fades into white fuzz and I lose sensation in my limbs before floating upward, dissipating into a vapor, makes me feel not only further away from you, but also my own purity.
Without my tiny pill calendar, I dissolve into an unknown and unknowably dark space devoid of biological identity. It’s terrifying! There’s no gravity. No light. No sound. No heat. I’m afraid that the amorphous particulate cloud I become could at any time encounter alien life forms that commune with or value me in something other than a sexual context. Would you ever wish that upon me?
Perhaps a final reason I require a hormonal pill each day to tell time, other than because time and my biology are intrinsically linked, is that I will have no other means of informing you, my mental shepherds, moral guardians, sexual keepers, and hot cum-squirting stallions, of my sexual availability. We know that when I’m sexually unavailable it’s a big old pain, and nothing upsets me more than upsetting you. But with hormonal birth control to tell time, I can correlate days of the week, and month, to an appetizing array of physical symptoms, including acne, breast pain, overeating, constipation, dizziness, and vomiting, harbingers of when the glorious hour of our physical union is nigh.
In conclusion, please, please mental shepherds, moral guardians, sexual keepers, hot cum-squirting stallions, and inter-dimensional gender definition warriors, don’t take away my most reliable means of telling time. While I need men to tell me what’s best for my body, you can’t always be available when I struggle with the days of the week. Even in the catastrophic event of an EMP, or another act of unprecedented global cyber terror, my pill packet will continue to reliably help me tell time, as well as my sexual availability for you – but most critically, it will prevent my body from dissolving into another dimension, one in which I’m not a woman at all.