They celebrate womanhood, singing off key, squealing and squawking about their disappointing men—competing in their veiled misery and resignation to life, recourse only to this annual ritual of catharsis. Her husband leaves the house—no, ‘vacates’ is more the word; runs for dear life from the reverse witch burning that would otherwise ensue in wholly justified recompense for their collective woes and pains of labor twice rolled and scolded by modernity’s sanity-destroying expectations of the insult heaped upon the injurious experience that is womanhood. He escapes and they follow suite. It doesn’t matter what they say and they know it. It could be twice as many words or half and the blood would all drip to the same point on the floor: “this is not good, I am barely hanging on, I cry all the time, he –this– is not what I had hoped for, please help me, tell me it’s this hopeless for you too, sacred estranged sister.” And they do. Until next year, lovelies. Keep your heads up.