Proof I Am Cursed - A Continuing Series

I am currently about fifty-four hours into what some call “weaning”, but I like to lovingly refer to as my official return to alcoholism. Let’s face it, you cannot be a drunkard on wine and beer. For the distinction of alcoholic, you need vodka. Or whiskey. Which after an almost two year hiatus, this tongue had a taste of last night. Glorious. Even with the suffering of rock hard, pressure filled and horribly aching boobs. You want to know what the pain of the end of nursing is like. Imagine a balloon being filled with water. Keep on filling it. Keep going. Now what happens? Yes, it breaks. It bursts because it cannot take the amount of liquid that is bubbling inside. Now imagine that pressure being kept inside your boobs. Imagine the hot burn, the pain in every turn, the slow descent into insanity. Then punch yourself in the stomach repeatedly and often, because guess what? Your period, that thing you last saw around June 2008, has picked this week, of all weeks to return. Because searing breast pain is not enough, you must also be saddled with Advil resistant cyborg cramps. So yes, I am cursed. Is there any other feasible explanation?