Never before have I said so much about so little.
In the end, Periods was beautiful, for what it was. What it was not, of course, was a story. No, not at all. This was a dream sequence. A very lovingly detailed nightmare dream sequence, but a dream sequence all the same. Perhaps if there had been some actual character development, this could have been a story, but, quite honestly, the rivers of hemorrhaging lifeblood pouring from Nancy's poor, sodden little crotch had more character development than she did. Heck, even the horribly caricatured Doctor Mason had more character development. Nancy was merely a limp, unresisting machine which existed solely to pump out gallons and gallons of sticky red yumminess all over our minds for the author's pleasure.
Don't get me wrong; Periods was awesome fun to listen to, and it had it's fair share of complete win. Not too far into the story, though, I was beset by the nagging question of why this woman hadn't gotten herself off to the emergency room posthaste once she started filling tampons like they were Kleenexes she was using to mop up a leaky faucet? Ok, her doctor told her not to. This would make her an incredibly weak-minded person, but I can live with it. Then she started gushing like Victoria Falls, and I had another question, "Why is this whiny bitch not dead yet?" Seriously, she's pumping out more blood than a broken water main does water, and you put her on an iron pill three times a day? She should've been in a hospital with a blood IV dripping into her, but she's at home filling her tampons with the sodden red mess. Oh, and popping a pill thrice a day to compensate.
Of course, once I realized that the story had no connection to reality, but was just a dream sequence, I laid back and enjoyed the show. It was a good show, of course. The imagery was yummy, and the panic was written in quite well. It almost made up for the cliche ending.