Standing in the Shadow of Giants

 I think we all have certain methods with which we value ourselves. We can value our worth by our dress size, our GPA or our latest kill count in Call of Duty. We can count it by the amount of likes we receive on our latest youtube vlog or the amount of friends we have on Facebook. Some don't go by numbers, but in stead figure their own self-worth to be determined by how satisfied they feel by the end of the day, the month, the year or their own lifetime. Fuck these stable, self-congratulatory arseholes.

 These all have very little to do with our actual market value, which, according to Time Magazine sits at about $129,000. So, more than your average prostitute and less than your average home loan. Depressing, maybe, but for some that could even seem a bit too high. The point is that there are a multitude of ways we can look at our lives and work out if we are worthwhile or not, and all of these methods are a giant, steaming pile of horse shit.

 My own self worth has always been bottled up in intelligence. Sure, I have fallen victim to the numbers on the scale, the number of countries I've been to or the number of likes my profile picture receives as an estimation of how society regards me, but these numbers have never stressed me like the frenzied, hair-pulling anxiety I get when I'm sure someone thinks I'm an idiot. 

 It's quite possible my regard for intelligence is an inherited one, as I come from a highly educated family who passed their hunger for knowledge down to me through books, conversation and an overbearing and repetitious monologue about the importance of a university education. Yet I do not regard the graduates of university as necessarily intelligent. I've had plenty of encounters with graduates who have minds like cold chicken soup, gelatinous and bland. So too have I met people without degrees whose intelligence is as palpable as the nose on their face. 

 I tend to gauge peoples' intelligence not by the paper in their hand but by their sense of humour. This comes from a long childhood admiration of comedians and comedy actors. Steve Martin, Eddie Murphy, Dan Ackroyd, Bill Murray, Whoopi Goldberg & John Cleese were all heralded as near gods in my household. Almost all American, because my mother is American and often despairingly homesick. Almost all male because, unfortunately, that was the state of the industry at the time. I remember the day John Candy died being akin to a national day of mourning in my house, where we gathered around the TV to watch reruns of Uncle Buck & Cool Runnings, crying and talking, sharing quotes and jokes, pledging to never forget the great man. We didn't just love these comedians, we took them seriously.

 I watched Goldberg feign crack addiction, Murray drive off a cliff with a groundhog, Murphy wax lyrical about being beaten with a shoe as a child & Martin jab a knife into the Los Angeles elite, and I thought yes, this is what intelligence is. It is having the skill to find humour in the worst possible circumstances. It is having the conscious ability and will to laugh at yourself. It is being able to pick out the best and the worst of people and get them to laugh at themselves too. 

 You might think this an odd definition of intelligence, but it's the kind I've most admired through my life. To put it bluntly, growing up, if people didn't think I was funny, I figured they thought I was stupid. That's how I saw it, and to this day it remains my accursed yard stick in determining whether I am a worthwhile human being. 

 The difficulty in this is that I am not a natural jokester. The fact that I just used the word 'jokester' can attest to this. I was never the class-clown, or the extrovert. I could never tell a joke, or even a story worth a damn. My humour rested only in a private sphere of self-deprecation and small witticisms between close friends. My burning desire to be at the pinacle of comedy was starved of oxygen by my increasingly justified belief that I was just not funny. 

 After all, I couldn't exactly work out if I was funny by the number of laughs I got. Well, I could, but I would have been setting myself up for humiliating defeat. While I counted, many more people, those who didn't feel a pressure to be esteemed by their comic timing, would surpass me in a flurry of over-confidence and maddening nonchalance.

 To value ourselves in and amongst a set of pre-determined standards is the most frustrating activity we seem to fall victim to in this society. It's desperation that wills it. We want so badly to become what we admire that we tend to forget who we are and the unquantifiable potential we each contain. A young girl looks at Kate Moss and thinks 'I want to be that'. She counts her life in calorie intake, in waist measurements and in number of boyfriends. When she grows up to be more of a Roseanne Barr, what is she? She's a failure - even though Roseanne is a Golden Globe and Emmy award winning writer/director/comedian/actress & producer who is just fucking cool, OK. 

 I'm never going to be Steve Martin. I'm coming to terms with this, slowly, painfully, and unwillingly. But that doesn't mean who I am & what I do counts for nothing. Does it?

A Complete History of my Sexual Failures - A Review

 It's awfully tempting to look into one's past to find answers to the big questions. Why am I the way I am? How did I get to be this way? And, perhaps most importantly, where did I go wrong? I find as I grow older this process of rehashing past failures becomes less and less appealing. As though contained within an hour glass, my potential is sifting through a tiny hole and each time I look into the bottom, it seems overflowing with mistakes.

 For this reason, Chris Waitt, the director and star of the comedy-documentary 'A Complete History of my Sexual Failures', is a new hero of mine. If what he claims is to be believed, he has been dumped by an unbelievable number of women, all of whom seem unwilling, or at the very least reluctant to ever speak to him again. What on earth could this man have done to become so widely unappealing to the opposite sex? This is the question proposed by Waitt at the beginning of his film, and by god is he showered with a great assortment of answers.

 Waitt is the utter embodiment of the word 'pathetic'. He is a grown man who lives in a decrepit apartment in the bleak urban sprawl of a dank, gray London. He collects old toys, wears old clothes and doesn't seem to bathe. As you watch him chase women down the street begging for sex, you realise he harbours absolutely no sense of shame. But all of this contributes to the bewildering sense of urgency one feels watching this sad, pathetic man attempt to stare into his past in order to fix his future.

 Hope is what drives this documentary, a doco which could easily be described as a romantic comedy for anyone who doesn't particularly like romantic comedies. Through his footage - interviews with ex-girlfriends who tell him with no hesitation precisely why they left him - a portrait is painted of a man who has lost sight of what he wants in life. Yet in between long shots of his flaccid penis and monologues about how his exes are all completely batty, Waitt cleverly weaves a very familiar story of rediscovering his long lost love.

 Without spoiling the end, I must say that the contrast between where this film begins and where it concludes would be incredulous if it weren't quite so endearing. How Waitt received funding for a film where he is repeatedly whipped in the balls by a dominatrix in full view of the camera, I do not know. But his talent lies in showing us a shameless desperation that, by the end of the film, is disturbingly easy to relate to.

In love? Screw you.

 A friend of mine is going through a rough time. He has been for a while and it all boils down to a bitch who broke his heart. This girl isn't at all what you would call a looker. She hasn't amassed any exceptional talents or engorged her mind with meaningful insight. She certainly hasn't accumulated, or inherited any fiscal wealth. There is no sensible reason why he should hold her worth superior to any other female on Earth,  but he tells me he loved her. What a fucking moron, am I right?

 'But love isn't about reason or logic, it's about butterflies, unicorns and reckless abandon', you squeal in refute as I beat you with a hammer. Now that you're subdued, we can finally talk like reasonable, intelligent human beings about this god damn word 'love'. 

 Don't get me wrong, I've been a fan girl for this word all my life. In fact, my love of words can be boiled down to a love poem I wrote when I was five; a love contemplation, if you will. It reads as follows:

 Red rosses ar love

 I love red rosses

 Tey maek me happy (the p's were backward; an interesting stylistic choice).

 Man, I really fucking loved red 'rosses'. They were the bees knees of flowers. But the key to this poem isn't the declaration of love, but my reasoning behind it. 'Tey maek me happy'. And thus an entire definition - a philosophy - was born for a word more infinite than the word 'humanity', or 'cheese'. 

 That love brings one happiness is the core message I, the 5 year old poetic prodigy, was trying to convey, a philosophy which died after a few pre-pubescent screaming matches with my brother about how I hate him and I 'always will'. Gosh darn it, I still love him though. Phooey. 

 So love is more complicated than that. After all, a rose does have its thorns (5 year old self = genius). So the things you love can cause you pain and misery too. They can punch you in the arm, threaten to steal your lunch money, send you to your room. When the ever nauseating pubescent years set in, your concept of love is ensnared in a slimy web of hate, lust, envy, deceit, greed and... well... go watch the movie 7even and you'll get the idea. So embroiled does it become, you stop regarding it as a distinct entity and accept it as an invocation of all these terrible, sometimes wonderful things.

 Once it occurs to you that the things you love might not love you back, you've hit a wall -SMACK- and happiness is a distant, naive sensory experience you once thought you had. You're exhausted from all this meaning searching, and suddenly the meaning doesn't even matter, because for you it's such a tangible solid thing, but for them it doesn't exist. 

 'Love' is the best worst word in the English language, because it is the most simple of ideas, the most plain and distinct of feelings, but it remains impossible to define in any adequate way. You love your mother, you always have, but you will never be able to truly say why. And every time you try, you sound like a poorly written Hallmark card. 

 And that's another thing. It is someone's job to come up with a new way - each and every day - to express this inexpressible, unfathomable thing. Personally, I think it must be one of the most soul crushing jobs you can find in the first world. For once I would like to see a card that reads 'Dear Potential Lover, I do not understand what I feel for you. I just desire you to feel what ever this is also. So let's get naked and hope for the best. xo' 

 But that's just the beginning of the conversation. Why is it that we desire a definition for such a listless, messy word? Why do we group such an enormity of feeling into just one, teeny tiny, four letter expression? Why can't we just feel love, and let it be? 

 It's beyond reason, it's beyond intelligence - or, more likely, in spite of it - but my friend loved this shitty person for a good long while. Well, he says that. But I'll never really know what that means. 

  

Rom-Com Stars in Films that Fuck with the Genre

 I'm a huge goddamn fan of Romantic Comedies. If I weren't quite so modest, I would call myself an expert. Name a romantic comedy, and I've probably seen it. If I haven't seen it, tell me before I watch Annie Hall for the 40th time and cry myself to sleep thinking about how they don't make good rom-coms anymore.

 The thing that draws me to the rom-com is the same thing that draws me to chocolate. It's sweet, it's comforting and no matter how bad the quality (Hersheys, Cadbury, 2 dollar shop) it's still satisfying an internal need. It's such a fucking cliche, but I love my chocolate and I LOVE my romantic comedies.

 BUT (and this but is about the size of yo' momma's, so listen up) I still don't buy into them. I love seeing Rennee Zellweger wrapped in Colin Firth's arms, making out in her underwear, in the snow (what can I say? I have a very specific fetish), but I don't actually think things like that occur in real life. No, I will not find an ex standing below my window with a boom box hovering perilously over his head. For one thing, my window is on the first floor. For another, this isn't the 80's.

 But that's OK. Sometimes I walk into an ice cream parlour with a strong craving for chocolate - note: always - but they've run out. Oh shit, now I have to get vanilla, strawberry or some weird exotic flavour like Jamaican rum or pistachio. As I've recently discovered during my travels in Italy, turns out I fucking love pistachio. Pistachio is the bee's knees of gelato. How nuts is that!? (...sorry)

 I admire these women and these films precisely for giving me pistachio when all I wanted was chocolate.* 

Sandra Bullock in The Net

 I will preface this by saying that The Net is not a romantic comedy. Nor does it pretend to be one. It is a sci-fi thriller to the core. But when watching the first 20 minutes, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. The classic rom-com set up is all there, dangling on the line. A beautiful, lonely, flawed woman decides she's had enough and is going to escape her hum-drum life for the first time by jet setting to a tropical island. She stumbles upon a handsome, charismatic - though a little goofy - guy on the beach, they play a bit of will they/won't they, and the rest, as they say, is box office gold.

 Until, of course, she finds a gun in the left breast pocket of the future love of her life's coat. The very coat he gave her when she had a chill. Way to kill a dream, Hollywood. It's the old bait-and-switch. Suddenly she's gone from Meg Ryan to trapped on a boat in the middle of the ocean with a psychopathic terrorist.

 This film undermines the rom-com in two fundamental ways. First, the flawed heroine. Any romantic comedy scholar will tell you that the flawed heroine is essential to the formula. Hollywood actresses are just too beautiful to be relatable to ugly mofos like you or I, so they assign them a flaw - clumsy is the most common, but it can be anything from lonely and depressed to super nerd, because in Hollywood being a nerd is a flaw. In While You Were Sleeping, Bullock plays a woman without family or friends, who is also clumsy. In Two Weeks Notice, Bullock plays a super nerd, who is also clumsy. Miss Sandra Bullock has covered all these flaws over and over with expert precision and excellent slapstick skills. 

 In The Net, however, Bullock's character is seriously fucked up. She has a severe case of agoraphobia. She has zero real life friends, avoids human interaction at all costs (she suffers dial-up speeds just to order a pizza) and when she does leave the house she wears baggy clothes to hide her figure - a classic symptom. To top it all off, the only person whom she actually speaks to (other than her therapist), her mother, has Alzheimers and can't even remember her own daughter's name. That is rough. Add to this level of fucked-up-ness the fact that she chose a job specifically because she wouldn't have to leave her home to do it, and our heroine becomes a cut above the clumsy heroine of yore. 

 This very isolation is what she has to contend with when the old bait and switch comes. The most important thing about this movie is that Bullock's character is all alone. Absolutely and completely. She has no girlfriends to run to and cry about how her new boyfriend is trying to kill her. As soon as she tells anyone about her situation, they end up utterly dead, and she is once again on her own, fighting for her own life, despite how many times the villains tell her it is not a life worth fighting for. 

 In this way the film presents itself as an argument against the romantic comedy. Romantic comedies tell us over and over again that we need someone in our lives to fulfill us, to complete us, to make us whole again. If we take a step back to that boat scene, Bullock was trapped in the delusion we are all spoon fed from childhood - she's finally found that person who will make her happy - but he isn't at all who she thinks he is. At the moment she finds the gun, I am always screaming into a pillow 'DON'T LET HIM KNOW YOU HAVE IT YOU FUCKING IDIOT!!', as though pretending he isn't a gun toting maniac will make everything OK. But Bullock calls him out - straight away - and an awesome fight scene ensues, which is equal parts realistic and kind of terrifying. 

 The point is, she escapes. And she does it over and over and over, on her own. In the end there's no guy, no help, no love, there's just her - and only her - to kill the bad guys and save her own bony butt. And she does it. She does it with goddamn style. 

Julia Roberts in My Best Friend's Wedding

 This film is probably the most famous anti rom-com ever made. The reason cited again and again is the M. Night. Shamalamalamadingdong worthy twist that the girl does not get the guy. It's a little known fact that this ending was actually decided post-production by a test audience, who didn't buy into the Hollywood girl gets boy happy ending for Robert's sort of messed up, unlikeable and altogether shrewish character. I suppose she was a little too flawed for their liking.

 But the reason I think this film presents an antithesis to the rom-com is that it is a film about friendship. Not only that, but it prioritises friendship over love. Only one other rom-com I can think of off the top of my head does that, and that's Bride Wars, so it just doesn't count.

 Robert's character is in love with her best friend, the premise of a squillion other romantic comedies, including Nora Ephron's masterpiece When Harry Met Sally. But she's realised too late and he becomes engaged to some ditzy blonde (Cameron Diaz), who is clearly inferior to Robert's character in every way except that she is blonder. At least that's how Roberts' character perceives it.

 But in an extremely effective - and considering the original ending, possibly accidental - way, the film highlights how utterly skewed that perspective really is. Through Roberts' other overtly homosexual (and thus safe from another rom-com cliche) best friend, played masterly by Rupert Everett, we hear a voice of reason that echoes the voice of reason in our every day lives. The voice at the end of the phone, on FB chat or on the other side of the cafe table, that tells us how bloody stupid we are being, yet magically gives us support at the same time.

 Roberts' character is a reflection on all the things we hate about ourselves when we fall for someone whom we fear doesn't want us back. The fantasising, the scheming, the loss of perspective and most of all the uncompromising focus we give to that situation to the sacrifice of everything, and everyone else. In her obsession with winning over her best friend to love, she forgets that he is her best friend, and more importantly, that she is his.

 And thus we see her spiral out of control, and in the blurred background we see a lonely, sad, confused man who craves so badly the support of a person who had up til now been there for him no matter what. In the end, when she confesses her feelings and realises the errors of her ways, a beautiful interaction occurs on a station bench, where she realises that this friendship is more important than her desire for happily ever after.

 There is an onslaught of films that tell us love, marriage, and all those gooey romantic things are more significant or special than the friendships in our lives. This is one of the first romantic comedies to tell us that friendship is just another kind of romance. It's a sentiment highlighted by Everett's arrival at the wedding. There is no hope in that friendship for more than what it is, but he still gets on a plane, gets in a tux, and is there for her precisely when she needs him the most. Now that is romantic.

*Apologies for the ice cream analogy. I've clearly been in Italy too long. 

In Memorium - A Brief History of A/S/L

 Am I the only person who remembers A/S/L? I know I'm ageing when the phrase 'it feels like only yesterday' stumbles so ungracefully from my fingertips, but it truly does feel like yesterday when these letters would be the first thing I'd type in any given internet conversation. I don't even particularly remember when it stopped being a 'thing' for me, which is odd, because of all the internet acronyms I've  encountered in my life, this unassuming little guy probably had the most profound affect.

 For those of you born after the internet became a thing, A/S/L stands for 'Age/Sex/Location' and existed almost exclusively for internet sexual predators and sweaty 13 year old boys trying to pick up online. Like its brothers 'WTF', 'LOL' and 'ROFLCOPTER', A/S/L crept from the foul depths of the internet chat room. Unlike its brothers, it died in the arse when said chat rooms disaparated to the far reaches of internet nomansland. This is because A/S/L served one purpose, and one purpose only; to meet strangers.

 Just quietly, I feel as though I am also the only person who remembers when the internet was the invention to put the world at your fingertips. Within only a few modem screeching minutes you could be reading a news site from Canada, playing Neopets alongside Koreans, or chatting with pedophiles in Russia. It was all so god damn exciting.

 But, as per usual, we became cynical about it. 'Oh, you have a boyfriend in Spain? Tell me more about how he models internationally yet still finds time to chat to you every night on ICQ'. We started to develop sites that pandered to stock communities; chat rooms exclusively for holistic florists from Taiwan or forums for nerds who wore funny hats and read Douglas Adams' novels. In stead of drifting out into the world to experience different cultures and possibilities, people receded into familiarity, burned from the sudden realisation that the internet wasn't so much a tool for communicating as it was a tool for lying.

 Back when I was 13, 14, my friends and I would 'hang out' in online chat rooms. I can hear the collective rolling of your eyes here, but back then (1999) it was the done thing. MSN facilitated this with great finess. We'd create groups called 'THE AWESOME PEOPLE' or some shit and chat about  bitches we hated at school in fluorescent pink and green text, scattering random emoticons around like nobodies business. Then a few random people would stagger into our room and the page would fill with A/S/L? A/S/L!? A/S/L!!!?

 If anyone admitted to being a girl, they would be slapped hard with filthy propositions coming from so many directions it was like an online Bukake fest. One of us would say 18/F/Sweden and get swarmed. In all honesty we could have said 90/F/Antarctica and still would've been swarmed. You just needed to be female, or rather say you were female. Easy. In conclusion, internet people are perverts.

 Straight away we'd be on ICQ, or the telephone (yes, I know,weird, right?), discussing how to make this guy (we assumed it was a guy but for all we knew it was a horse) send a photo or say even more vulgar things for lols. As a pass time my friend would come over and we'd specifically go to the weirdest chat rooms, pick up strange guys (say we were female) and laugh at all the stupid shit they said. These chat rooms were so heavily populated with creeps it was terrifyingly easy to snag one at any given moment. It's no wonder they were shut down.

 But then there were those rare occassions where I'd find myself bored, lonely and awake at 3am just wanting good conversation. When I was almost 15, I met a guy on one such morning in a chat room about niche horror films. A/S/L? 16/M/Germany. He was really into film, so much so he'd send me video tapes in the mail showing me around Berlin. I'd borrow my parents' camera and send him tapes showing him the wonders of Sydney. I even gave him a tour of Pancakes on the Rocks once and bumped into a famous rockstar outside who gave him a shout out- you may have heard of him, Josh Homme (name droppin' like a pro). We were friends for a couple of years - German guy, not Josh Homme. Sucks - and the lovely exchange we had continued throughout. It was, without a doubt, one of the nicest friendships I've ever experienced in my life.

 The best thing about it was how private it was. We had no connections whatsoever. He knew nothing about my life, apart from what I chose to tell him and vise-versa. This turned us both into the most interesting versions of ourselves we could possibly muster, and for the first time in my life I felt somewhat significant in the greater scheme of things. Someone from the other side of the world was genuinely interested in what I got up to that day, and, probably most importantly, what I was doing with my life.

 I never told anyone about it. But when A/S/L died, when chat rooms died, when ICQ, MSN and the entire idea of making real friends over the internet died, so too did our exchange. We both got Myspace and it exposed us to each other in a way that, for me, felt brutal, uncomfortable and ruined what we had. I could make an argument here that Social Networking killed off the wonder and mystery of internet communication blah blah, but really I just want to send a shout out to my little man, A/S/L. He was a pretty sweet guy, we had a good time together, and I'm kind of sad to realise he's gone. Probably forever.

RIP Maurice Sendak

 Maurice Sendak, author and illustrator of masterpiece literature such as Where the Wild Things Are and Outside Over There, died yesterday. I can not begin to describe how devastated I feel about this. Neil Gaiman wrote a touching article about this wonderful man over at his blog. He writes;

What I loved, what I always responded to, was the feeling that Sendak owed nothing to anyone in the books that he made. His only obligation was to the book, to make it true. His lines could be cute, but there was an honesty that transcended the cuteness. 

 Take a look. 

 And if you want to read something extraordinary, have a read of this. 

 Much love sent out to a master of his craft, his family and his fans. 

Everything you never wanted to know about a woman's period

 A male friend of mine asked me today to do something I never really expected I'd have to do in my lifetime. 'Explain periods to me,' he said in a considered tone, as though he were asking me to explain algebra, or pot roast. 'Can you please just tell me what the deal is?'

 I took a deep preparatory breath and said 'Wtf is wrong with you? Didn't you do Health? OK, well, firstly it all has to do with making babies...'

 'No, no, no, no, no, no. I know the science. But why are women such crazy bitches?'

 Why are women such crazy bitches? It's a deep philosophical question people have been pondering for thousands of years - men and women alike. Why do our periods make us nuts, or else, why does the stereotype that our periods make us nuts exist? If current research is anything to go by, according to studies there is a correlation between a woman's Aunt Flow visiting and an erratic state of mind (SUPER surprising, I know). 

 The feminist me wants to call bullshit on this, considering the amount of times I've heard men blame PMS on perfectly rational reactions to their stupidity. But the little period monster inside me may well disagree as she sits atop her mountain of skulls, contemplating the next head she wants to tear off. 

 This situation is confusing for women, so I sure as hell can understand why it would be confusing for men. In stead of answering straight away, I decided to compile a list for this bewildered friend of mine of all the things I know about having a period. People with vaginas may find this funny, but people with penises may be scarred for life. You have been warned. 

 For some women, a period is just a mild inconvenience in a harmonious life filled with butterflies, bike riding and long stretches of meadow (like in tampon commercials). For others, it's like an apocalypse between their thighs. 

 I had a boyfriend who once told me in the midst of a really bad bout of cramps that he never even knew when his ex had her period - it just wasn't an issue. After a swift kick to the groin, he learned and grew as a person. I kid, I kid, I only imagined the groin kick in my head. What I did was much much worse. 

 A period is as unique as a finger print, a snow flake or a well crafted home made explosive device. Some women don't even see it coming, and by the time it comes, it's gone again. Simple. We hate these women. For others, it's like that scene in Carrie, except the blood is coming out of you, not being poured on top of you. And I'm sorry, but it's really difficult to be subtle about being soaked in a bucket of blood. You think that's gross? Then thank nature it isn't happening to YOU! 

Yup. Stephen King wrote one long PMS metaphor.

 Fat days aren't in our heads.

 Women can retain up to 5 kilograms of water during their period. 5 kilograms. It may not seem so much to some burly dude, but that is 5 litres of water swooshing around inside us telling us how inadequate we are at life (and preventing us from fitting into our jeans). Of course a woman can reduce water retention by eating less salt and, strangely, drinking more water, but don't tell her that, especially while she's on her period because shut up that's why.

We burn over 15% more calories every day while on our periods. 

 Chocolate cravings are a cliche, but one with a serious scientific reason behind it. During a woman's period she needs to eat more food. FACT. Don't begrudge her that second helping of chocolate orange ice-cream or she will murder you and eat your fatty flesh in stead. That is how ravenous we can get. 

 Period boobs are a sign from the gods that they hate women.

 Breasts never look rounder, perkier or more like you're a bikini model in Sports Illustrated than when you're on your period. Too bad there is BLOOD POURING OUT OF YOUR VAGINA.

 Period sex is awesome sex.

 OK, allow me to clarify. This does not mean I've had sex on my period. All I know is that every girl I've ever spoken to about this has confirmed that an orgasm during one's period is the best freakin' thing in the world. Also, many many many women experience extreme randiness when they're on their period. Probably some artifact left from when men sniffed us out for hanky panky back in the day. I don't know, can't be bothered googling it. But one day we decided that a period wasn't sexy and developed some kind of moral repulsion to having sex while BLOOD IS POURING OUT OF OUR VAGINA. This means that at the exact time we are most willing to get our kit off and have sex, it is frowned upon that we do so. Sucks.

Skipping a period is the worst thing in the world (when it isn't on purpose).

 Thanks to drugs, women can now choose if they want to have their period or not. You can take the pill  or else get an implant and not have a period for years (although it is seriously not recommended by doctors). I know a girl who has done it, and only stopped because she was worried she was pregnant and wanted to check. 

 But if you aren't on the pill and you expect your period at a certain time, but it doesn't show up, it is a horrible feeling. The best way I can describe it is it's as though you organised a big extravagant party, sent out the invites and put up the decorations but the day arrives and no one comes. You have all this excited anticipation and inner preparation. You stock up on chocolate and put Hugh Grant in your DVD player. It's a sad party for one but in a weird masochistic way you kind of like it, and feel totally rejected when it decides you're an arsehole and doesn't show up. 

 Then of course it can be a sign something is wrong. Google 'late period' and you'll see the myriad of things it can indicate. Anything from stress and STIs all the way to full blown cancer. Well of course you're stressed NOW, you might have FUCKING CANCER!

 And I do not care how long it's been since a woman has had sex - months, years, hell, she could be a virgin, but when confronted with a late period, every single woman has had that sickening gut feeling that she might be pregnant. Penis pregnancy or toilet seat pregnancy, it doesn't matter, her period is late by 3 days so she is definitely absolutely monstrously pregnant and her life is over. 

 Personally, I do get more irrational and sad around my period - but not everyone does.

 I am not a scientist. I do often sport a strapping white lab coat and glasses, so I'm sorry if you felt mislead, but it was all in the name of fashion. All I know is that when I am on my period, the following commercial makes me sob like a little baby. 

 I'm not a big crier in everyday life. The only thing that can consistently make me cry is the first ten minutes of Up, but that shit is sad as balls. But I once sobbed for 5 straight hours after a fight with a guy. 5. Straight. Hours. The next day I got my period. What I'm saying is, if science ever tries to say that emotional instability and getting your period aren't linked, science can go fuck itself. 

 That being said, I know plenty of women who don't behave this way. As I said from the beginning, a period is different for everyone, which brings me to...

 Periods change as we age.

 This is something I was never told in those secret women only meetings we have every year to discuss how we are taking over the world, our periods and the latest Leonardo DiCaprio film. Periods grow and change just like we do. For some women they get better with age, less painful, less emotional, and for others they get worse. Some women are in constant fluctuation, like a Kinder Surprise born from the pits of hell, they never know what kind of deliciously chocolate covered period they are going to get.

 The only consistency is women tend to get better at having periods as they age.

 If you've ever seen a girl ask another girl if she has something on the back of her skirt/pants, that's secret code for 'oh dear god please tell me I haven't leaked blood all over my butt'. When I was in high school and all the girls were first getting their period, this is something that happened ALL the time, to everyone. We weren't sure how to position pads right, we were terrified of using tampons in fear of toxic shock syndrome (yes, this is a real thing) and most girls didn't have older sisters who were rad enough to show them the tricks of the trade (for example, tying a jacket around your waist to avoid embarrassment). We also didn't know how to handle the emotional whirlwind, the pain and the other crazy body stuff, such as pubic hair and surprise breasts, that come along with it. It's a whole world of horrible, and a spot of blood is only the beginning. 

 But as we grow up we learn to prepare and condition our bodies as best we can. A period isn't a ticking time bomb any longer. It's more just a situation we, as females, have to handle. We have the tools and the ability, we just have to take a deep breath and deal with it. 

 What I mean to say is that we learn how to not be crazy bitches on our periods, in spite of all the crazy shit that is thrown our way because of them. If we are feeling ultra crazy, we generally go to a doctor and get that shit sorted. So next time you think a girl is being a crazy bitch just because she's on her period, maybe you're just being a dick bag and should probably stop calling bitches crazy.