Fat Esme Bleeds for You

It's Esme. I have my period and I feel as if every ride I've taken on the stationary bike has left me right where I started. This is literal. I've passed the scenery and the painted cardboard is crumbling with each step I take. It isn't the platform shoes, the agenda, or the bullet-ridden self-esteem. It's the part of being a woman that keeps every woman wanting else.
It isn't that I don't appreciate getting my period. After all, getting it proves to me that, above all else, I am healthy enough to be functioning regularly. It's like when the bank statement comes in the mail, without fail, Yes, You've Spent, But You're Still Part Of Our Estableshment. We're Still Holding On To A Part Of You. It Will Be Okay.
No, I'm not quoting.
It's about to pour again and it's a Saturday Morning and in a few minutes, I will have to do just what it is that I do for a living. I'll have 20-40 people up here in my studio, smiling at me, complaining at me, asking questions, wanting things. I'll spend the next several hours trying to make people feel good about themselves.
I wish I had a life understudy. I wish I could call her and stay in bed.
I tried to exercise this morning. I did.
I just feel like every muscle is wasting into a pit of fat-filled flesh. My guts are the Twinkie Cream and my skin is nothing but hardened-preserved, cake-like product.
Well, at least Twinkies could survive nuclear attacks.
At least I'm bleeding.
love, esme