How the Pill REALLY Works
(Warning: this post may include too much information for my more delicate male readers.)
Allegedly, birth control pills work by screwing with your hormone levels and tricking your uterus to think it can't nurture a fetus, or something. But I have a new theory: Birth control pills work by wreaking such havoc on your body that no one could possibly ever want to make sweet love to you.
A few months ago I was without health insurance, and in need of a female-type checkup. So I did what any uninsured person does and grudgingly made an appointment at the Planned Parenthood in downtown Brooklyn. As I took a seat in the waiting room next to what appeared to be a small army of unemployed, freaked out sixteen-year-olds getting abortions, I felt depressed and vowed to go through the paperwork hassle of renewing my insurance.
An hour later I was sent on my way with a clean bill of health and enough birth control pills to reverse population growth in the slums of India. I haven't been on the pill in years, but I thought maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea just in case I accidentally came too close to a random splash of sperm. Somehow, in the sixteen years since I've been able to spawn children, one fear of mine has never abated: having to call my father and tell him he'd be the grandfather to a bouncing bastard baby sired by someone whose last name I may or may not remember. Better safe than sorry, I figured, as I ripped open the first packet of pills.
It's now a month later and I'm not one, not three, but TEN pounds heavier. Sure, this has something to do with my consumption of ButterBurgers and cheese curds and the recent spate of work that's kept me chained to my desk and away from the treadmill. However, our friends over at Planned Parenthood only hand out ghetto pills -- the kind with enough estrogen in them to give a sixteen year old boy tits (ortho tricyclene) -- and I know they're screwing with my system.
Every day at three, I want to take a nap and then eat a huge slab of Eli Zabar carrot cake from Pret. That never happened when I wasn't popping. I'm crabby, I'm crampy, I have headaches and heartburn; I'm probably growing vericose veins as we speak. I look like I'm four months pregnant and I'm so bloated I feel like some kind of exotic camel whose fluid-filled hump sloshes around just below its belly button.
The only benefit of this devilpill is that my tits are enormous! I actually had to go up a bra size, and when I walk around topless, I feel like the prow of a ship! OK, fine, they're not "enormous," but they are at least a half a size bigger, which bumps them up from the "small" category to possibly, "smallish, but a nice, squeezable handful."
I kind of can't stop looking at them. I'm a tad obsessed with big boobs, probably because I never had any (perhaps this is why guys are obsessed with tits, too). OK, off to fondle my own, (sort of) pendulous chest in front of a mirror somewhere. Hurray/Boo for the Pill.
Allegedly, birth control pills work by screwing with your hormone levels and tricking your uterus to think it can't nurture a fetus, or something. But I have a new theory: Birth control pills work by wreaking such havoc on your body that no one could possibly ever want to make sweet love to you.
A few months ago I was without health insurance, and in need of a female-type checkup. So I did what any uninsured person does and grudgingly made an appointment at the Planned Parenthood in downtown Brooklyn. As I took a seat in the waiting room next to what appeared to be a small army of unemployed, freaked out sixteen-year-olds getting abortions, I felt depressed and vowed to go through the paperwork hassle of renewing my insurance.
An hour later I was sent on my way with a clean bill of health and enough birth control pills to reverse population growth in the slums of India. I haven't been on the pill in years, but I thought maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea just in case I accidentally came too close to a random splash of sperm. Somehow, in the sixteen years since I've been able to spawn children, one fear of mine has never abated: having to call my father and tell him he'd be the grandfather to a bouncing bastard baby sired by someone whose last name I may or may not remember. Better safe than sorry, I figured, as I ripped open the first packet of pills.
It's now a month later and I'm not one, not three, but TEN pounds heavier. Sure, this has something to do with my consumption of ButterBurgers and cheese curds and the recent spate of work that's kept me chained to my desk and away from the treadmill. However, our friends over at Planned Parenthood only hand out ghetto pills -- the kind with enough estrogen in them to give a sixteen year old boy tits (ortho tricyclene) -- and I know they're screwing with my system.
Every day at three, I want to take a nap and then eat a huge slab of Eli Zabar carrot cake from Pret. That never happened when I wasn't popping. I'm crabby, I'm crampy, I have headaches and heartburn; I'm probably growing vericose veins as we speak. I look like I'm four months pregnant and I'm so bloated I feel like some kind of exotic camel whose fluid-filled hump sloshes around just below its belly button.
The only benefit of this devilpill is that my tits are enormous! I actually had to go up a bra size, and when I walk around topless, I feel like the prow of a ship! OK, fine, they're not "enormous," but they are at least a half a size bigger, which bumps them up from the "small" category to possibly, "smallish, but a nice, squeezable handful."
I kind of can't stop looking at them. I'm a tad obsessed with big boobs, probably because I never had any (perhaps this is why guys are obsessed with tits, too). OK, off to fondle my own, (sort of) pendulous chest in front of a mirror somewhere. Hurray/Boo for the Pill.
posted by Had To Move at 5:37 PM
1 Comments:
I also fondle my tits in front of...uh....forget I said that.
The low-estro variety, if certain sources are to be believed, is much less side-effect-y.
And you get to have sex sans raincoat, which is nice.
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