2:00 a.m. Tangerines and an Old Rock Dyke

I went back to bed shortly after midnight and again took up the book I was reading, an autobiography called, "Anti Diva," by Canadian rocker Carole Pope from the defunct band called Rough Trade.
I had read half of it on the plane ride home from Montreal in October, but until recently almost anything Canadian besides Crunchie Bars and a few friends well west of Quebec made me cringe.
Pope is a gritty, scary looking dyke who has slept with a lot of women, most notably Dusty Springfield, whom I just adored.
Late in Pope's book, she brings up her own shock at entering menopause.
I think that's why I am up at 2 a.m. blogging and eating a tangerine.
It's that fucking menopause.
I thought I'd get to skip menopause, having had all my girl parts removed last April, but apparently it's a hormonal thing and we all have to pay.
I stay pretty even kiltered taking a horse piss-derived pill called Prempro, but it does have side effects, the most obvious being, 'I don't give a fuck' syndrome.
This manifests itself in my not giving a fuck about what others think of me, sleep becoming more of a concept than a nightly gig, and vacillating constantly between wanting to get laid, and not wanting to bother ever getting laid again.
One minute I am falling in love again. The next minute I am turning off the phones and putting a pillow over my head so the light is blocked and I can sleep.
My once-fierce temper has leveled out apres hysterectomy, but my tolerance for bullshit has thinned to a gossamer veil. I don't get mad, I get outta there.
I don't feel physically weak or decrepit, I just feel the cutting edge is a lot duller than it once was. I am usually in a good mood, but it's a dumb good mood, like a Forrest Gump good mood.
One thing is for sure, sleep comes and goes when it wants, and I have no organic control over it. I have no control over anything that comes next, but believe me, I'll never miss tampons.