Welcome. Today is day 1 of April PMSing. I’ve written before about a highly effective coping mechanism, but seeing as I’m at work, self-medicating isn’t an option. What I’ll choose to do instead is share this fucking burden with you, my reader (and subsequently, friend). AND YOU WILL READ ALL OF IT, YOU HEAR ME? NO SKIPPING PARTS! AND LAUGH AT APPROPRIATE TIMES!
A girl who’s in tune with her body – as I like to think I am – can generally detect the first symptoms of this recurring, unamusing prank from nature. This particular month my Redcoat visitor (so charming, all of a sudden!) brings a goodie basket of:
Sitting at my desk, fidgeting and worrying about ALL of the tasks I need to accomplish, thus spending my time engaging in none of them isn’t very efficient, is it? Well, that’s what I’m doing. Even better when I remember all of the personal tasks I have to accomplish too. Clean my apartment. Put up a Craigslist ad to help it get rented. Call Directv and ask them kindly to return the $350 they deducted from my account without authorization or good reason. I have to, I have to, I have to, I have to… PLEASE, GOD, LIFT THIS HEAVY BALL OF DUTY-VOMIT OFF MY BACK, I NEED TO BREATHE.
Can I have a hug?
Why? Are you in a bad mood or something?
No, I’m in a good mood, I just need a hug.
Okaaay. Weirdo. [he hugs me]
Life would be so much easier if I just got married to a really rich guy and could stay home doing NOTHING. I could deal without self-realization, being a waste of oxygen, occasionally debating if I could be classified as the ultimate prostitute, hiding my shame deep into the subconscious with the help of alcohol and drugs for every time I charge the credit card for a pair of stilettos that I think will make me look good and feel better because once someone slips a big fat shiny ring on my finger, I’ll instantly learn how to and enjoy walking strapped to such sadist contraptions. Forget exercising and challenging my faculties and finding a person who respects and appreciates my mind, and thinks of me as an equal, and a life partner with a hot bod.
Oh yea, I already went through that.
It’s very strange, because it isn’t sex that is appealing to me now. It’s just making out and smelling a dude’s scent and being touched. But not sex itself, necessarily (though I could be persuaded if I were already involved with said dude). Note it is imperative that he be manly and sweaty, preferably post sports-match or something. It’s not gross, it’s just my hormones. I don’t appreciate your judgment. Oh, you weren’t judging? Sorry, I’m a little defensive.
Ever been on a really scary roller coaster, or taken ecstasy, or punched a wall/door in anger? These activities can leave you feeling pretty drained afterward, huh? A black hole of emotions where sad and happy, tired and energetic, talkative and anti-social all meet and penetrate one another, forming a blob of nothingness. Yeah, I kind of feel like that. They’re all inside me, yet I can produce nothing. It’s like a sharp, involuntary intake of breath seconds before what you THINK is going to be a massive, super satisfying sneeze and… nothing. It’s like dry humping for forty minutes, then hearing the parents walking down the hall, forcing you to take seats at opposite sides of the bedroom, borderline catatonic, unsure if you’re angry or sad, because your hormones were LIED TO.
At least there’s been no crying. On the contrary, I’m feeling sort of… RAAWWRR! I just wanna go home and take a long walk with the dog, while listening to music and then return to clean the shit out of that apartment!