The Laiv Wire: If only you would stop antagonizing me, we could be friends.

Said no one, ever.

I have never, ever, in my 20-some-odd years of life, heard a woman say that she has a good relationship with her uterus. Never have the words been uttered, "I am on great terms with my Period!"

If someone has said that to you, she is straight up LYING. And don't give me that BS about the miracles of the Pill. Medicating your uterus is not a good relationship. You are literally drugging your vagina into submission. I would venture to call that a really not good relationship, actually.

I don't blame them, though. First of all, this:

Second of all, recently, when I've looked at a silhouette of the female reproductive system, all I've thought was some terrible hunch-backed, Gru-like villain:

Good luck unseeing that.

If it made sense for me, I'd probably dope up that bad-boy, too.

Luckily (unluckily?) for me, my body regulates itself in a strangely hyper-efficient mode. I don't cramp much, and my period doesn't come all that often - but that doesn't change the fact that I, like all women, see it as a bane of my gender.

I first recognized that I would not be getting along with my reproductive system around the age of 16. For about a year, my period ceased altogether for no discernible reason. Eventually I went on hormone supplements, and it was Niagara Falls in my pants.

That only lasted a matter of months, though, and then it came only once every 6 months or longer, and then suddenly - barren once more.

While most people would tell me to shut up and not look a gift horse in the mouth, it was still sort of jarring for me. I was terrified that I was infertile (obviously not something that affected me at 16, but back then, I had greater illusions about the possibility of having babies.) It wasn't until college that it sort of came back on a semi-regular basis, though still not predictable in the least.

The worst case of unpredictability happened in my senior year of college. The night before an important exam, or sometime thereabouts, I woke up around 3 AM, a cold sensation running up my belly.

Just underneath my stomach, my sheets were soaked. Without warning at all, every cubic centimeter of my endometrium had apparently just spilled over, and I was lying in it.

How I probably should have reacted is something like this:

But since I am not human, how I actually reacted was more like this:

Yeah, I'm not proud of that. ... Well, ok, maybe a little proud.

Some girls get signs like spotting, or their smartphones track their cycles to the minute. Yeah, I can't do that. My cycle tracker has zero idea how to predict my phases.

For a few years, I thought it was because I was seriously unhealthy. Maybe I had serious deficiencies. Maybe I was not "woman" enough.

It took quite a while, some trial and error, and a little research, but I eventually learned that it wasn't all me. In fact, I'm starting to think it's not me at all. Really, reproductive systems of all women everywhere, high and mighty because they are miraculous baby-makin' factories, just feel entitled to be a gigantor jerk-faces and a half.