I woke with it this morning out of the blue, an uncontrollable hatred for everything. A coffee stain on my pillow. TAT playing his Xbox live and chiming out random macho statements, cursing in front of the kid while she patiently waits for the use of the television. Puppychild has drawn a picture of a queen with scribbly hair and oversized eyelashes and a big ‘M’ on the front of her dress… she proffers it up to her daddy and he just grunts, it’s breaking his concentration. I want to break his fucking face through the plasma screen.
There is a troll with gnarly knuckles grinding his teeth inside my ribcage and it won’t let me enjoy the beautiful day outside… instead it makes me sweat and itch and it shows me the unpacked boxes and piles of clothes and dirty dishes and it tells me that I’m a worthless person and I want to swallow drain-cleaner just to feel a different emotion, even if just for a few minutes. Blind panic and sleepiness, balled-up energy festers with no discernible function, like a plasticky mess left over from a volatile chemical explosion. Pure useless rage.
What exactly is the point of P.M.S? How is it constructive in the grand scale of reproduction? I’m picturing a woman standing at the mouth of her cave, blindly wielding sticks and rocks about and screaming abuse at passing strangers. Only the hardiest of men would fancy applying for access to those ovaries. Maybe that’s it? Perhaps by going slightly mental once a month, it prepares a mate for the turmoil to follow… the anguish of a screaming colicky baby is not for the fainthearted, neither is the sweet smile of its mother and the perkiness of her lovely boobs, for a wicked demon with a stash of verbal hand-grenades hides underneath. The best mate, the strongest man will know to wait it out, to pat it on the back until it burps, to wait out the storm and know that the rough must come with the smooth. No pussies need apply.
It’s quite clever really. It’s like I say to TAT… just because I have PMS it doesn’t mean you’re not a gobshite.