"Guess what time it is? TOM is coming!", is how I announce it. You may have your own manner of notification (megaphone, billboard) to warn everyone in a four block radius that the psychotic bitch marathon is about to begin. Grab some popcorn, a pound of M&M's, and a straight jacket with a diaper because the time is now, dammit!
Actually, mine isn't that bad. I just sit behind my computer, sitting up in bed, and give the back of #3's head the stink eye, just like I am now. He has no idea how many times I have asked the Almighty why children are starving to death in Ethiopia but he gets to continue breathing in the good air meant for non-sociopath people. That is the extent of my PMS, with the exception of the pillow-soaking tears from regret, shame, and a lack of Adderal. Thankfully the selection of drugs here is bountiful and I just double up. It's the American Way here in Colombia.
So, with my subtle hints to #3, he hears it's a coming. He sees the look in my bloodshot eyes, bloated face, and hair I brushed with a hand mixer, grabs the list for the store and makes a run for the door. I no longer want to send Hannibal Lector for his ass, but sigh deeply and hope his taxi driver is drunk. But only on the way home, and close to the house, so I can still get the bags of stuff from the car. Love is, after all, about what I can guilt #3 into doing for me. And that is the blessing in disguise of PMS. As if you didn't already know.
Milk that baby for all it's worth. My Mommy taught me from when I was just a little 'ho. But now I'm a big 'Ho, and she was right. That, and watch out for the jackalope. I think she may have been wrong on that one. She was a flower child, you know. Weren't they all back then?
Words of Twaddle for the day-"Medellin is God's rehab." Genius, huh? He never seizes to amaze.
Be well, or don't.
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