Pre Menstrual Homicide

I guess yesterday was the calm before the storm. Every month around this time I go through one day of complete and utter exhaustion accompanied by one long terrible stomach cramp, one day of secretly binge eating salty and sweet food and, finally, a day of short fused irritation with every single thing right before aunt flow comes to town. Saturday I was exhausted and had the inevitable cramp, yesterday I ate almost a whole bag of chips with dip and half a pint of Ben & Jerry’s while watching Orange is the New Black. I didn’t even have real food for dinner, but I was happy and at peace, remember?  Today was day three: pre menstrual homicide. It was like I opened my eyes and a little bipolar light bulb was turned on in my head. Every little thing irritated me. I was irritated when I woke up. I was irritated when my phone rang, I was irritated when I got home and the dogs were barking at my neighbor even though we’ve been here for two years and the damn guy has always lived next door. I was irritated when my show ended horribly and I still couldn’t muster up the emotional fortitude needed to mourn. And now I’m sitting at the laundrymat irritated that there are hyper little people running around and irritated that nobody has come up with a hybrid “no kids allowed/ full bar” washerette because even though I typically don’t drink, I’d really love a shot tonight for no good reason other than my hormones are running wild and I still lack the ability to shed a damn tear. It’s ridiculous when I think about it, really. Who wants to cry? Some people cry over everything. Hallmark commercials, music videos, cute baby videos, old grandpa videos, people embracing at the airport, babies being born, kittens being born, people getting married, people dying, people finding their long lost siblings, dogs finding their owners,  etc. I’m not saying I want to be one of those people but I feel like I’m emotionally constipated and I need some sort of emotional miralax, because I fear my lack of tears may be causing an abundance of well hidden aggression that I would rather not let rear its ugly head. One of my friends said something to me today in his usual asshole-ish tone that he has a tendency to use regularly but doesn’t hear how much of a dick he sounds like (you know who you are) and even though I’m used to his fuckedness, today, I wanted to smack him in the face with a Lodge cast iron pan. And I thought to myself, “Angie, get a hold of yourself! This is not you. It’s the PMS talking. Don’t listen to her. You’re a fucking pacifist!” Of course, nobody can usually tell I’m irritated just like they can’t usually tell when I’m in my little chaotic bubble from yesterday’s blog. I have a knack for faking things when I need to (except for orgasms, I never fake those). So I was my usually happy self today. Easy going. Smiley. Positive. All the while I’m plotting imaginary murders for a book I may never write just to find an outlet for whatever this is that I am feeling. Also, I haven’t worn a bra in two days. I was all the way at work when I realized I was free boobing. And nobody even noticed because my boobs are too small. And then that irritated me. And then it didn’t, because I was definitely at work barefoot and bra-less all day and that is kind of awesome. Almost awesome enough to make me a little less irritated, but not quite.   Maybe  I just need to find Jesus, or Muhammed, or Ghandi , or Buddha or Jim Jones Kool-Aid recipe or someone to give me a massage and some really strong pot brownies (because…chocolate…and I don’t like to smoke) or a pedicure because pedicures are close to ecstasy. Just exploring all my options is making me feel better already about this whole PMH situation. I’m sure by time I wake up tomorrow I’ll be back to the regular not faking my happiness version of me, so for now, I’m just going to lay in bed and listen to my little fish tank filter waterfall and think more happy thoughts.