I never promised you a rose garden

The vagina is the ideal environment in which new life can gain purchase. Babies are made there, dreams begin there, the echoes can be deafening there, and was that just a vagina monologue I heard? Yes, the vagina is a mystical, magical, hypnotic garden of wonders, but like any other garden, when the beaten path is beaten no longer, that path grows over.

I have just such a horticultural experiment going on in my panty-clad laboratory. While I've always thought of myself as something of a plant killer, these brambles just won't stop a-growin'! I'm talking, of course, about the late-in-life second hymen. Its existence is a well-documented scientific fact (don't look it up; I expect you to just believe me). Understand that this is a totally accidental overgrowth; I mean, really, do you think I'd plan something like this? But there it is, and here I am, and my new plant friend and I just need to find a way to co-exist until growing season is over. Dear lord, I hope growing season is over soon!

While I wait for the harvest to begin, it hardly seems appropriate for me to refer to it in such an impersonal manner - it's lodged in my vagina, and for better or for worse, that makes us friends for now. At least very familiar acquaintances. As such, I feel as though a name is in order, so that my new hymen doesn't just feel like some twat-bound object.

I'll call it...Barry R.