My dad asked me to clean my room when I was about fifteen. My version of cleaning was to take everything on the floor that didn’t have an obvious home in my room and put it in the hallway. About an hour after this, my dad opened my door and put a painting I had made in art class back in my room (where, I should point out, it belonged) as well as a couple pairs of my shoes. This caused an almost nuclear melt down from me, courtesy of my period. I’m talking full on, end of the world, waterworks hysterics. His laughing at my ridiculousness only made me cry harder.