Period.

I’ve turned in to a filter-feeder, eating everything that’s not nailed down or meat. Preferably things made with chocolate. Or at least sugar. (You know, like right now, I’m inhaling the granola bar that serves as a little chaser for the poppyseed muffin I swallowed without chewing. Because I just finished off the M&Ms.) I’ve turned in to a blowfish, puffing up to three times my normal size (give or take). I seem to have turned in to an untapped natural resource, as my face has begun to produce enough oil to power multiple small vehicles (compact cars, tractors, golf carts, etc.) for several days worth of time. Odd places have started to hurt. (Back. Shoulders. Head. Neck. Ankles. Elbows. Bellybutton. Uterus.) I’ve become remarkably clumsy, losing fine motor skills I thought I’d mastered in kindergarten. And it is best not to speak to me, look at me, think of me, ask anything of me, or do anything at any time that I might possibly consider stupid, wrong, offensive, lazy, inappropriate, unkind….. Really it’s not good to do anything in my general presence (besides breathe, and even that’s a little chancy), or I will most likely strike you down with my piercing glare and sharp words, or whatever blunt object I can get my hands wrapped around. And, I'm eternally on the verge of tears; pretty much hating myself, along with everyone else, and am filled with depression, sadness, self-loathing and self-pity.

And my period hasn’t even started yet.

Do I really need, once a month, to become this enormous walking disaster area? No. I do not. But it happens anyway.

Good times….. Good times…..

Now go away.