September has made me a dude.

Have you ever acted like such a spaz and then you kind of go “What the fuck, why was I such a spaz?” That. And then you continue to analyze yourself and think, “Okay so if I say this and do this everything is fine because that’s what was bothering me,” and then that doesn’t work and reintroduce spaz. Until a few days later when you process your moments to yourself and go back to, “WHY THE FUCK WAS I BEING SUCH SPAZ?!” And then all you can do is hang your head in self-disappointment, which has since become a thing.

Welcome to my September. Spaztacular!

This, of course, was compounded by the fact that I got what I can only assume was the upper respiratory black plague that – 3 weeks later – is still lingering around with a cough that makes people cover their faces when it emerges from my otherwise no longer sickly looking face. And that, of course, was compounded by my first ever ovarian cyst, which was subsequently only discovered because my abdomen began to hurt when I coughed – which was often, thanks to the lingering plague. And then the doctor grabbed it and – from the radiology reports – ruptured it. So now I know what it’s like to be kicked in the balls. I know what it’s like to have your balls kicked, squeezed and popped - and admittedly it made me almost throw up and pass out. (Although she blamed it on "hearing news I didn't want to hear", which I didn't - due to the horror stories of friends with ruptured cysts - but no, while my hormones were spaztacular, my brain is not quite that nauseatingly powerful, Doc.)

Now, you’re probably thinking, hey there girl, thanks for the fucking overshare. But whatever, 1. ovarian cysts are common, 2. I now can say “Actually I DO know what it’s like to be punched in the nuts”, and 3. this explains why I have been such a spaz. Because ovarian cysts? Oh yea, apparently they make you kind of crazy, in addition to a million uncomfortable side effects you probably misattribute. On top of that and stressing out about what the hell was wrong with my body, I had the plague, this Turk situation I’ve been ineffectively navigating - in part to him ineffectively listening, my new car with a fucking starter or alternator issue before I even made my first payment, and, you know, 31 looming - a reminder of last year's birthday from hell, and, you know, age. Ugh. It’s as if my ovaries needed to make their presence known as they travel into 30-something and go: HEY BITCH, REMEMBER US? USE THIS SHIT OR ELSE.

And in addition - just on the heels of ovarian news that scared the shit out of me - I learned that The Turk has to stay in Turkey for an extra nine days. Talk about timing. So, for those keeping track: that’s 19 days of knowing one another, five proper dates, and 43 days abroad. Normal, totally normal; wasn’t interested in that dangling carrot or anything; wasn't looking forward to the end of this ridiculous hostage situation, which obviously were aiding in the spaz since we were clearly on separate pages when this thing started and now I’m fairly certain we flipped through trying to find where the other one was at and instead just ripped the book apart.

Good job, September. You dick.

Now, as I hopefully can finally stop freaking out about what’s wrong with my body, I’m also hoping that everything else falls back into place again; hormones regulate; side effects subside; stress diminishes; and I go back to my normal fucking self. Because I can’t take this crazy bitch I’ve been dealing with anymore. She's driving me nuts. So to recap: I’ve been kicked in the balls. I've lived with a crazy chick who spazzes irrationally. I drove off this person who was totally into me. And I have had my head under the hood of my car half of the time.

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Officially, September has made me a dude. Fuckin' A.