She's Gonna Blow!

I have PMS today. Oh shut up.

It's been coming on for a few days, but I realized in the grocery store today that it was here, big time and in living color. There was this little kid behaving the way little kids to when forced to endure really boring grown up stuff like grocery shopping. He was a normal kid behaving normally. So why was part of my brain convinced he was the spawn of satan? PMS.

I'm the only one who is allowed to say it. That's the rule. If it is "that time of the month" and anyone other than the woman affected dares to mention it, they get their faced ripped off and fed to the neighbor's schnauzer. I think it's a schnauzer, anyway. It's some kind of annoying little .... deep breath .... better.

PMS makes me feel schizo. Even while I'm envisioning grabbing the neighbor's yipping little fur ball and doing my version of an Olymic discus throw right over the rooftops, I know that what I'm feeling isn't logical. I like dogs, really. And the little &&^% was just expressing his perky little personality. I know this. And next week I will be at peace with the little *&^). But that's next week. Next week I might run into that same kid in the grocery store and realize that his eyes aren't actually glowing red and, no, those aren't horns he's sprouting.

But this week it's best if you don't look at me the wrong way. In fact, just don't look at me. No matter what expression you are wearing, I'm going to take offense. No matter what you say it will be the wrong thing. And even while I'm envisioning just how to go about feeding you to Fifi, or Fido or Frank or whatever the little &^%#'s name is, I'll know that you don't really deserve that. And I'll feel guilty as all heck about it. Next week. This week, not so much.