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“Trautenfels — Krampus” by Wolfgang Sauber — Own work.

The Song of Menstrual Krampus

Every year, in the months that lie between the Day of Daylight Savings and the Day of Daylight Losings, the Menstrual Krampus rises from a deep peat moss bog in the Cumberland Gap region of Tennessee, and floats upon a cloud of those really thick, cheap, scratchy maxi pads, to visit her descendants and shower them with her magnanimous will.

Menstrual Krampus. The feminine spirit of the solstice, of the winter moon, of Christmas bells and bad holiday television, of premature womanhood, of red and green bulbs (mostly red), and of teenage girls searching desperately for tampons in the medicine cabinet at their grandmother’s house, to no avail, for their grandmothers hit menopause twenty goddamned years ago.

She comes wearing robes of bleached cotton and smooth, pearlescent neoprene plastic, bearing gifts that have already been unwrapped. The vivid crimson caught within her fur bespeaks and foretells the holiday season’s coming deluge of well-intentioned waste and needless excess. Many gifts she bears, thousands for every young creature marked with the double X within her sights, but lo, she possesses nary a single gift receipt.

She bales at the moon and lays waste to the maple fudge and Christmas ale. Hark! She does not wreak senseless havoc upon humanity, for she is not a temperamental spirit. She is not driven by her emotions, because if you’d look up a single goddamned clinical study, you would realize PMS is a myth.

Like the moon she waxes, delivers a bright and gleaming sight, and then recedes. Menstrual Krampus is formidable in her constancy, lovely in her round fecundity, and red as human desire. Looking,in the glare of the solstice moon very much like a combination between a Gorgon, a fearsome, dark-coated yeti, and Midna from Legend of Zelda: Twilight Princess, except with a hell of a lot of blood matting the fur near her mons pubis.

She is a vision. Effortlessly weird and feminine both; everything you shall ever aspire to be. And be it you shall! For we are all her daughters. Or at the least, we are all dribbles down her immaculate legs.

During the months of darkness and artificial warmth, hold fast to your sweater leggings, your hot cocoa, and your Tylenol PM. Make an offering of spiced candles; anoint yourself in a warm bubble bath; lay prostrate on your pillow. Let your fearsome maw open to the skies, cast your cursed claws to the heavens you are not wont to acknowledge, and drink a little bit of extra water to purge yourself of the day’s unflattering bloat. Behold! You are new.

For when you wait, warm and comfortable in your bed, she shall rouse you and call you to her monthly celebration.You are not pregnant. Eggnog is back in stores. Rejoice and praise.

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