Last weekend, I got hit with the ever-so-popular PMS symptoms. Now that I’m in my mid-thirties, things aren’t quite as regular as they used to be and I’m pretty sure that my ovaries are firing buckshot instead of bullets in the hopes of me getting pregnant. Fortunately, I’m not sharing my bed with anyone but the cat these days, so my ovaries can suck it. Still, there are days I wonder if my hormones are using the buckshot-for-bullets excuse as a justification for amping up my PMS symptoms just for giggles.
I’m laughing. Really.
I spent the weekend swinging between terribly emo (teary) on one end and horrifically emoting (pissed off) on the other. Since my cycle isn’t very predictable as of late, I didn’t even think of it being that time of the month. So naturally, I did what any other uber-driven HPS with high expectations does — I beat myself up over my lack of “grip” on the situation and spent the day wishing they made emotional Fixadent before my snark teeth flew out of my mouth and bit one more person in the ass.
If you think that being a HPS means you don’t get your uterus (or panties) in a twist from time to time, think again. And if you’re a HP thinking of marrying a HPS, it doesn’t necessarily mean you’re getting a woman who has self-evolved her way out of the need for Midol. We’re just as likely to send you running to the local altar of Our Blessed Lady of Quickie Cocoa (the counter of the nearest convenience store) for chocolate.
Oh, and Doritos. Trust me, anything that can bleed once a month and live can survive a Dorito or two hundred.

I'm not going to go into great detail on this here because I need to sleep soon. But I'm going to get it off my chest before laying down for the night. Maybe I'm the only one ...
Heartsong (heartsongshymnal.blogspot.com) |
Thursday, 13th August 2009 at 12:02 PM