I don’t hate. I don’t like using that word, it’s an ugly, ugly word. But seriously. I hate it when the red flower is blooming. For those of you who didn’t watch Game of Thrones. When the red flower blooms is that time of the month. Yes. THAT time. On the surface I’m a normal functioning 30 something year old. But you would be wrong to assume that. Because underneath I’m like a psycho ball of crazy just waiting for you to say something wrong so I can rip your head off and shove it up your ass. Or burst into tears. Or go and lie in the fetal position on my bed and stare blankly into space. Or give you an extra dollop of love. Obviously.
Okay but seriously. It’s really awful. My thoughts aren’t my own, they are irrational and erratic. I go through the entire spectrum of emotions one can possibly have in a minute, now times that by however many minutes there are in a day and it’s a small wonder that I am not in the loony bin by the end of the time it takes for my uterus to stop throwing a tantrum. I feel insecure and emo and a little bit agro. For instance: Everyone I love is going to leave me and forget about me, why gods why, ag fuck them anyway I don’t need anybody, back to nooooooo please don’t leave me. So yes, as you can see, it’s a whole lot of fun in my head right now.
Besides that. Life happens. Shit needs to be sorted out, I have to perform at work, I have to be a Mom and everything. I probably need a medal right around now for keeping it all together. Because like I said, I do a grand job of making it look like I am fine. I even remembered to buy toothpaste today. So here’s to us woman. We are awesome. For living life, functioning and getting things done amid having a raging hormonal cocktail of crazy once a month without stabbing someone the eye with a fork. And if all else fails and you collapse into a puddle of tears because the cat just threw up on your new rug, there’s always wine.