She awakens at 5:40 in the morning, nauseous and hung over from the night before. She can't even sleep. Her first thought is to force herself to throw up. A light turns on and shines through the crack beneath her bedroom door. Her father is awake, musing around the house. She cannot puke while her father is musing. He will know she was drunk and will beat her with sticks and Twizzlers and such. She waits and waits and waits until he leaves for work. Finally at 7:45, an hour later than usual, he leaves. Just then, her mother, who is playing hooky from work, awakens. Damnation. She lies in bed, yearning to clutch onto that cold, white, porcelain toilet. While her mother is making her morning coffee, the poor girl, who has never been this hungover in her life, sneaks into the bathroom and silently and quickly, like a bunny, a gazelle, a humless hummingbird, forces the poisons out of her body. Ahhh, the relief. She brushes her teeth. She feels so fresh and so clean.
An hour later, she can't remember if eating makes a hangover better or worse. Better, worse, better, worse, better, better, better.
Nothing can make this worse. She eats a nectarine. Mmm, it's nice, juicy and fresh. It cleanses the palette. Worse, worse, worse. The fruit emits toxins into her body, plaguing her already weak state with a fuck you from Mother Nature. Damnation again. She staggers to the nearest soft surface and lies down until the pain ceases. She fears the day that lies ahead, knowing that it will be no less than miserable.
She takes a shower and gets ready.
Off to the "woman's doctor" she goes. Like a superhero, she trudges on. The girl, whose weak stomach has caused her to swear off dairy products and the Blair Witch Project, queasily drives to the gynecologist. Oh, the motion. Her head and stomach twist and turn with every curve of the road. But, she survives the drive. She sits pathetically in the waiting room, staring blankly at the small television set and realizes that The View is on. The fucking View. She wants to grow a penis and exit the premises immediately.
Her name is called. The gyno, a near stranger, asks her extremely personal questions, of which ALL the answers are no, and orders her to assume the position. The metal stir-ups are shockingly cold, but the worst part, oh the unexpected worst part ever--the gyno presses her stomach over and over, checking for tumors, babies, potatoes, whatever.
Please, stop. Please, you bitch from hell, have some fucking mercy.
Get to the vagina, go! Just stop the madness.
When she gets home, all she wants to do is meditate, sleep, die.
Her 12-year-old sister decides that this is the day to play "poke your sister in the stomach." The little monster must know. Before she can make it safely to her room her mother says, "Don't get comfortable, I took off work so we could spend some quality time together." She smiles half-heartedly and thinks to herself that the last thing she needs is more female bonding. She has never felt less like a woman.
