PMS.

It's frickin' freezing in here, Mr. Bigglesworth.

I guess there will be no swimming for me and the kiddies today. Or, perhaps, from the way things have been going here this morning (and, yeah, it's 8:02 am), the kids shall be going swimming, in the river with cinderblock shoes. Bitches.

It's been a PMS week. Gosh, I just love those. Can I possibly eat more? Perhaps retain some more water? Or perhaps just go pyscho on everyone? Nah, maybe I'll just pop some more pills and be somewhat un-emotional. I gained 5.something lbs this week, and all I have to say for it is, Aunt Flo, you are one douchebag.

All this and in another 10-20 years she'll be gone from my life, with a grand farewell lasting many years, I'm sure, and then when my uterus is shrivelling up and rotting and I have to take estrogen or some other synthetic hormone that'll probably give me in cancer (likely in said rotten uterus, or nearby), I'll be wishing for Aunt Flo. WISHING! ANd remembering fondly. Yeah, be careful what you wish for.

Why the hell can't I type without typos? What's wrong with my fingers? (Oh yeah, that's right, they're fucking freezing).

LAme, boring, sorry. And screw that there typo. That'll be Dukkha's little trademark, double capitals. Yey.

Perhaps if I throw some food at these devil's spawn, they'll be in a better mood.

Ciao.

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