Sunday Dysphoria.

I feel like my insides have bee scooped out with a spoon. A silver spoon from my grandmother’s antique tea service, to be exact. I’m not coherent. I would like to smash things, but society dictates a certain set of rules that I (sigh) must follow. The fridge smells like it’s been stuffed with roadkill. I need some Ibuprofen. NAOUGH. And also at odd times during the night. Dad, you might not want to fall asleep tonight, because at roughly two in the morning I will be yelling at you to get my medication.

Some things PMS stands for:

Psychotic Mood Swing. Perpetual Munching Spree. Pardon My Sobbing. Potential Murder Suspect.

Someone needs to remind my father that, for the next four days, reminding me that I haven’t finished Catch-22 and that I look like a hobo picked up from the street is not, you know, PRECISELY HELPFUL.

It seems ridiculous to blame hormonal swings for such tremendous consecuences. PMS so defies my normal, logical conduct it makes me want to question Mother Nature (at gunpoint) on why exactly she gifted us with these chemical imbalances. So kind of her, really.

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