The One With PMS

Okay, actually I do.  And I feel compelled to talk about.  

My pants don't fit.  I cry for no reason.  You're really pissing me off.  I want chocolate.  I'm sad because I want chocolate.  I'm sad because you're really pissing me off.  I'm sad because I'm crying for no reason.  And most of all?  I'm sad because my pants don't fit.  And because I really want pizza.

And also?

This was yesterday:

I'm soooo fat.... nothing fits meeeee....

What the fuck do you mean, it will take 30 minutes to deliver my pizza?  I'ma kill you!!!

I'm soooo sorrryyyyy I threatened to kill youuuuuu...

This candy is fucking awesome.

Waaaahaaaaahaaaaaaaaa.... I ate sooo muchhh chocolate...

Booo hoooo hooooo.... I'm soooo fattttt that my pants don't fittt.... nomnomnom....

I'll fucking MAKE those pants fit.  And then I'll kill you if you don't bring me more chocolate  And tell that little pizza delivery boy he's got 29 minutes to get his ass back here.  Or else..

Nothing.... NOTHINGGGG.... pisses me off more than the rumor among men that women have invented PMS as an excuse for irrational behavior.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  First of all, women don't need to invent an excuse to be really irritated with men.  Dan pisses EVERYone off.  He's an equal-opportunity douchebag.  If I want a reason to be violently angry and commit homicide, all I have to do is look at the underwear he thew AT the clothes hamper that are now lying in a heap, sunny-side up, on the floor NEXT to the hamper.  This is a man who can fire a ball through a hoop from the 3 point line time and time again, but he can't get his underwear into a hamper 2 feet from where he's standing?  

Yeah... I need a serious bout of hormones to find THAT annoying.

(Okay, something actually does piss me off more than that:  When men assume that EVERY time a woman totally loses her shit, usually over something HE did, that it's PMS.  But that's another blog for another day.)

Truest fucking story ever told.

Here's the real kick in the ass:

I managed to get through puberty relatively unscathed.  My face didn't break out, I didn't go through an awkward stage (never growing taller than 5'1 kind of helps in that regard), I had good hair, nice teeth, great skin....

(Go ahead and hate me.  I'll wait.  You'll feel vindicated in a minute.)

I'm more than making up for all of that now.

I woke up this morning with five (5) zits on my chin.  ON MY CHIN.  Not just little zits, mind you, but giant freaking mondo Teenage Mutant Ninja Zits.  The kind that start miles beneath the surface of the skin and then build to a crescendo before finally bursting forth in neon glory, usually on the day that you have plans to be seen by the general public and know, with absolute certainty, that there is no camouflaging those festering boils that are throbbing and pulsating to the beat of their own drums.  

(Why yes, as a matter of fact, I DO have plans this evening, thank you so much for asking.  My zits and I will be attending a party tonight.  I can't fucking wait.)  

I'm 49 years old and I'm breaking out like a 12 year old on the eve of her first menstrual cycle.

Just a little reminder to myself that it could actually be worse...

My face feels like Braille, and I'm pretty sure if some blind person were to inadvertently try to read me, it would say, "Bring chocolate.  And sweatpants.  Then leave me the fuck alone.  I love you..."

I'm totally running out of steam here, so I'll leave you with this:

You're welcome.