consent.

huh.

there’s nothing like responding to a voicemail (what the fuck is THAT, right?) first thing in the morning to learn that:

a) your body is in fact turning against you
b) you’ve already been scheduled to have more of your cervix ripped out of you than already has
c) that this will happen on september 7th.

happy fucking birthday.

and, maybe-medical industry, ask for some permissions?
check a chart?

i don’t know.
what do i even know?

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