Or should I call you something a bit more fun? Vajazzy, perhaps? Or how about Cunny? Beaver, Dick Mitten, Stench Trench, Bikini Bizkit? No? OK, then. We’ll stick with Vagina.
I have so many things I’ve been meaning to tell you, Vagina. Things like how much I appreciate you holding up after all the abuse you’ve taken during this life. I just haven’t seemed to find the time to get around to it, what with all the demands for “food” and “attention” and “clean clothing” these kids of mine have been hurling at me. (They’re so needy, these ones. It’s like they expect me to raise them or something. Assholes.)
Speaking of kids, there is one thing I feel we should get out of the way. Why couldn’t you see to it to let those little bastards come flying out of you the way God intended? You know, it’s because of your selfishness that I had to be sliced open, my entrails placed atop my bulging midsection while the doctor dug through my body and damn near up into my throat to retrieve those babies, and on three separate occasions, no less. You couldn’t see fit to let even one of them come slipping out of your hairy potter? I mean, that first doctor was elbow deep in your sugar basin for an hour trying to prime you. I understand not wanting to meet my anus in an apocalyptic blowout of ripping flesh and uterine sludge, but the least you could have done is dilate and efface like a normal honey pot. Besides, my anus isn’t that bad of a guy. I think you’d really enjoy him.
While we’re on the subject of baby baking, did you really have to make my pocket pie swell up like a puffer fish for four of the nine months? Jesus. For a time there I thought a small animal had taken up residence in my bread box. I was certain walking would never be the same.
Furthermore, what’s with the dryness post-delivery? It’s like the goddamned Sahara down there now. Even my tampons are begging for lube. For nine months I dealt with the mudslide-ish trickle of ectoplasmic goo, and now this? How you gonna do a sister like that? It’s not like I’m asking for the Twatlantic Ocean here. Just a little lotion to help with the motion.
And I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the yeast beasts you let populate my pole hole from time to time. What the hell did I ever do to deserve the fiery hot itching of a thousand red ants all up in my spasm chasm and the ricotta-like panty paste colonizing my underthingies? It got so bad one time there that I was sure the quickest way to independent wealth would be to purchase stock in Monistat.
I am, of course, not without my own shortcomings, something I am humble enough to recognize. Like that one time I nearly took off your left labe with my razor blade. I’m sorry. I really am. It’s just that ladyscaping can be a real bitch while knocked up, and in my defense, I was desperate to keep the glory hole from resembling Chewbacca’s lesser hygienically-conscious cousin. I’m nothing if not thoughtful when it comes to people who, by trade, have to go diggin’ in my goodie basket.
I should probably atone for all those late-night, booze-fueled rolls in the hay as well. No doubt, you took some poundings, Vagina, and here I am, thong in hand, to say you handled them like a champ. Your bag pipes may be a little wheezy because of it, but you took it for the team, and my G-spot thanks you.
In the end, Vagina, I want you to know that even though you’re a stubborn little bitch, your meat curtains are in urgent need of a makeover, and my milkshake no longer brings the boys to the yard, you’re still top moneymaker in my book.
Except when you bleed for seven days straight and leave me curled up in the fetal position, positive contracting Hep-C by extracting my uterus with rusty junkyard tools would be worth the moment of peace it might afford. Then you’re just a cunt.