There comes a period every month where I encounter existential dread on a level that outweighs the trauma I incur when the Starbucks in the library furnishes me with a beverage containing chunky almond milk.  It’s my “time of the month” or as my mom attempts to pressure me into phrasing, “my women sickness,” (it flows better in farsi, I promise.) But if we’re being real here, it’s the week I’m involuntarily inflicted with the equivalency of being stabbed in the vagina five-thousand times and hormonal imbalances that amplify my already severe emo-ness.  There’s no room to sugarcoat this shit when I’m being compelled through my hormones to cry off notable amounts of my Diorshow mascara every hour.  I now have gone through an entire month’s worth of mascara in a week, have two dollars to my name, and am experiencing the emotion “ugly” for the first time since puberty. Periods…