Vetruvian

Rollinus, 1756

Oh, man. These last few days I have felt so revoltingly embodied. This weird you live in. This bewilderingly armed sine qua non with legs. Squishy shapes that you have to clothe and corral with tools only approximately fit for purpose. Things that hurt. Hormones. Brain. Glitchy, dickish, anxiety-riven brain. Unpredictable insides that might bork out and kill you at any moment. And still with the blood. Seems like it was only last month that ... oh. 

A doctor said to me while he palpated my upper left quadrant, 'I'm so grateful I'm a man'. 

Because blood doesn't exit your uterus? Inter motherfucking alia, Dr Douchecopter.