Being a Woman

Being a woman, I can hardly figure out my emotions. Is my anger coming from the parts of the brain that regulate my pure, uncontrollable desire to destroy; emerging from my seasonal insecurities thanks to the constant need to be perfect; or is it derived from my bleeding uterus? I take a seat and contemplate. To visit a small place where my feelings reside, I have to cross three long, unsteady bridges. I hate it.