I am cranky. No, more than that. I am pissy, I am irritable, I am lethargic and mildly depressed. I am also having a "fat" day. Thank you, progesterone! You fucking suck.
Is PMS a self-fulfilling condition, I wonder? Every time I get to the dark blue pills in my flesh-colored birth control orb, I think 'PMS a-comin'. Then I put on my little engineer's hat and blow a train whistle. No, just kidding. But I do think, 'Oh, no, I'm going to be bloated and mean in a few days.' So, when something inevitably pisses me off, I feel just a teensy bit justified in unleashing the full force of my wrath, because, hey, you know -- I'm on the rag. What am I supposed to do about it? Hormones make the best fall guys.
Of course, I'm not just making other people miserable -- I'm making myself miserable, too. I'm eating crap -- not even enjoying it, just shoveling it down to keep myself occupied. I'm isolating myself, slumped in my chair, wearing headphones so that no one will talk to me. I'm feeling so sorry for myself that I picked a fight with my boss -- never a good idea. I almost cried, and then I spent the whole afternoon watching "The Office" on ITunes in silent protest.
TGIF, though? I guess? All I want to do is sleep and read USWeekly. Jeff never understands that I mean that quite literally -- my weekend will consist of: bed, magazines, possibly a cocktail if you bring it to me so that I don't have to get up. Jeff is one of those "get the most out of the day" types. He gets upset if we "waste" our weekend indoors. I, on the other hand, feel cheated out of precious weekend time when we "waste" an afternoon at a museum. I like my weekends like I like my movies: dark, indoors, with popcorn.
In my defense, sun gives you cancer. Popcorn, on the other hand, is simply delicious.