Eve’s Legacy

Dear Eve,

I am writing to you on behalf of myself and women everywhere…

You suck donkey balls.

Because of your inability to show no more restraint than a 3 year old in Baskin Robbins, your flagrant disregard to a direct order from God Himself…

“Don’t touch the fruit, Eve.”

… I sit here doubled over, suffering from mind-numbing cramps that would drop a grown man to his knees. I’m cranky, and irritable, and as, for reasons unexplained by medical science, Irritable Bowel Syndrome is another symptom of this “legacy” you’ve left for me, I’ve spent the better part of my day in the bathroom while my ass pays homage to “Old Faithful”.

I could have understood, sympathized even, had Satan shown up in the Garden of Eden bearing a striking resemblance to Brad Pitt and holding a piece of cheesecake or a Snickers bar- I might have done the same thing- but as it was, you fell for a smooth-talking snake with a fruit fetish.

There’s no excuse for that.

You’re failure to keep your hands to yourself cost me my pride when I was a cheerleader in my sophomore year, and your legacy came to visit me during half-time at the West Ottawa vs. Holland football game. My friends spent the rest of the season trying to come up with cheers that rhymed with “Tampax”.

In addition to my pride, you’ve cost me 32 pairs of underwear, 12 sets of sheets, 6 pairs of pants, and monthly trips to Walmart for the past 19 years.

You owe me $2493.64 plus tax, you bitch.

The wrath of God is nothing compared to generations of women who’ve endured years of cramps, mood swings, and water retention, and when we storm through the Pearly Gates with an empty bottle of Extra Strength Midol in one hand and a baseball bat in the other, you’d better run, and run fast…

Because we’ve got PMS and we’re pissed off.

Until then,

Sammanthia