like manna from heaven

I woke up somewhat melancholy and lethargic.

I scratched my itchy left ankle and reached for my bcp’s which, after opening the pack, explained the mood. I swallowed and threw the covers back over my head and set up shop with Blinky. She meowed in protest and ran off leaving me to fend for myself. I laid there irritated that just because I’m a girl I have to deal with this monthly bout of awfulness. I’ve come to recognize that it makes some of us angry and violent. It makes others snarky and mean. Me? Back to the internal, it makes me lazy and sad.

Several years ago I had gone through bouts of being on and off the pill, which further complicated the emotional roller coaster. I wished I was one of those girls who simply let the hormones take over, behave badly, and in essence, get bitchy because I feel entitled to be. Some women have used PMS as an excuse to murder, maim and disembowel for years.

I just don’t have it in me though. I think things to a bloody pulp. I never thought it was fair to believe that having a vagina meant I could drown your cat in a menstrual rage and expect to be forgiven for it because it wasn’t my fault I had a period.

I’d rather just hide in my batcave until the whole thing blows over.

Most of the time it works, but sometimes it just leaves you with too much time on your hands and something evil opens the door to all the bad thoughts you could ever have about yourself.

It’s all bullshit too. You’re completely aware that these thoughts are fabricated but sometimes you find yourself on the toilet with your head in your hands because you’ve gotten a glimpse into your future and in it you still have unacceptable arm fat.

I’ve always done a good job of separating the hormone crazy from reality but some days you’re too tired to fight the good fight.

I slept a bit more but eventually climbed out of bed at noon, nibbled on a cold heart shaped pancake and packed my bag for the gym because if there is one thing that shuts my brain up, it’s 45 minutes of cardio. My heart pounds too loudly in my ears for me to think.

Note to self: 1 smallish pancake does not a breakfast make.


Veggie Bootie, 1 bag = 4 Serving Sizes = 520 calories

I limped back into my apartment several hours later lame and ravenous. I owe someone a bag of Veggie Booty. I inhaled the contents in record time. I looked down to see Blinky licking a lone veggie puff that had escaped the carnage of its brethren.

I tossed the empty bag into the trash accepting that while eating a whole bag of booty was not a good idea, there was no use in lamenting the fact I had consumed roughly 520 calories in 2.3 minutes. I can’t take it back. Or I can’t spit it out. Or I could barf it back up, but I make for a horrible bulimic.

I took to task making a real meal of sorts with my cat sitting under the kitchen table waiting for something else to fall, like manna from heaven.

Blinky’s been on the fritz as of late. It’s like she’s being taken over my some sort of alien cat. I blame it on the chemicals she’s licked off of my photos I have laying around in my bedroom. And who knows how many rubber bands she’s possibly eaten? I’ve never seen her chew on one until last week. I’ve seen her lick butter off of the counter and olive oil off the floor. Her cholesterol must be off the charts. She acts like she’s annoyed with me and, dare I say, she looks tired.

Poor cat. After dinner she sprawled out on top of the kitchen table in front of me looking like she needs a vacation.

“Just you wait,” I said to her. “You. Me. A beach and some kitty whiskey. I’ll even get you floaties for the ocean.”

She meowed in response.

“Yes, the dr. can come too. If you insist.”

In the meantime, my triceps are sore. I can intercept a morbid arm-fat future yet.

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