the real truth about PMS.

Okay fellas. Let me unlock a little portion of the PMS mystery for ya. I’m not saying it’s gonna make you feel any better but, well, whatever. Shut up and listen.

The thing about PMS is that sometimes even WE don’t know when it’s happening. Generally, if I know I’m in a particularly bitchy mood, I retreat from society and let the mood swings pass. But some days, like today, I don’t know I’m in a day-long PMS fit until I find myself calling a plastic spoon a “dirty fucking bitch” because it fell into the dirty dishwater. Appropriate anger? Probably not. Harsh, unwarranted profanity for inanimate objects is usually a good indicator of trouble.

Today was one of those fucking days for me where I hated everyone in the world, including myself. Nothing went according to plan, people kept standing me up and pissing me off, and then the little things started to absolutely break me down. It should have been obvious when I started crying while talking to my mother about her new cell phone head set. There’s nothing tearful there. No reason to be upset. Yet I was. And through a quivering voice I told her I had to go. Right now.

Or maybe the food should have tipped me off. It should have been obvious when I ate seventeen fistfuls of bite size chocolate candies in the matter of about four seconds. The carnage of brightly colored foil wrappers all around me, I paid no notice to the dozen+ snickers, rolos, and hershey’s miniatures I popped in and practically swallowed whole. Or the fact that for dinner, cooking also made me teary-eyed until I decided on “fucking eggs and bacon, because I want it, dammit.” I put cheese in the eggs, but the real clincher, which only my mother and sister could attest to, was that I put ketchup on the eggs. While this is a normal and routine condiment on eggs for a great many people, it is not so for me. If you see me applying ketchup to cheesy eggs, please, for your own safety, leave the country immediately.

This time, for some reason that defies medicine and science, I wasn’t prepared for my own PMS. I’ve been trapped in my apartment with myself for days, thanks to holidays from work and a vicious cold. Anyone unfortunate enough to come in contact with me today only heard me bitch and bitch and bitch, fusing in a single breath such statements as: “and THEN he called back and canceled on me!” with “THEN my fucking internet crapped out” with “and THEN I ate the last rolo! What the fuck! How fucking rude is that? Jesus fucking Christ, I hate myself!” To these friends, I apologize whole-heartedly. (Even to Bobo, who kept antagonizing me in his role of "he who represents all of the male species" throughout the conversation.)

So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go make some Special Dark Brownie mix and eat it uncooked, because it’s my fucking right as a PMS maniac, and no one is going to fucking stop me. Except maybe that dirty bitch plastic spoon.