Are my hot flashes due to an estrogen imbalance or a rapidly warming planet hastened by unaccountable oil barons who own our elections?
Am I irritable because my progesterone is low, or because social media has turned my prefrontal cortex into a 24-7 whack-a-mole game to sell me Norwegian wrinkle cream?
Do I have hormonal brain fog, or am I just lost in a for-profit insurance company’s updated phone tree?
Is my dwindling libido estrogen-related, or did I get a mid-coitus push notification that democracy might be dead because of Logan Paul’s YouTube?
Is urinary incontinence a symptom of perimenopause, or are my bladder muscles atrophied from too many years wearing diapers on the floor of an Amazon warehouse?
Is my hair thinning, or am I ripping it out because a thirty-four-time convicted, sexually abusive steak salesman with a Hannibal Lecter fetish is five points ahead in Arizona?
Are my migraines hormonal, or am I thinking too hard about how Peter Thiel has more money than all nurses on Earth combined?
Is my insomnia caused by a spike in testosterone, or by the crippling fear that I could be arrested for saying the word “abortion” in 2025? Even if I’m joking. Like now. (This is a joke, for future reference.)
Is my anxiety perimenopausal, or is it a natural reaction to finding out Hulk Hogan might be the new Secretary of Homeland Security?
Are my breasts tender, or did I get punched in the tit by a Nazi?
Am I depressed because my periods are ending, or did my boss use my emails to train my AI replacement and then fire me with no severance the day before I was supposed to have spleen surgery?
Do I have hormonal osteoporosis, or are my bones breaking in solidarity with my spirit?