It makes me inexplicably angry when someone starts singing--and then continues singing for the duration of my workout--on the treadmill next to me. The rage boils up inside of me more and more with each passing note.
I'm not even sure what else to say about that...except that maybe it's time for a cup of coffee....
In other news, I used to doubt the existence of PMS. I'm fairly certain that this belief was gleaned during my slut days, otherwise known as the days in which I was so worried about the possibility of an unplanned pregnancy that I celebrated any signs or symptoms of my period.
PMS? Why, it wasn't even an acronym in my vocabulary. In college, various friends would claim that they suffered from it, and I would always puzzle over that. "You're upset that you're getting ready to start your period?" I would ask. "Because I'm pretty sure, based on the fact that it's 10 o'clock on a Saturday morning and you just popped the top on your second beer, that you might not be ready for a baby?"
For years (mostly during my early 20's), I would pray for that day each month when crippling, endometriosis-like cramps would arrive, rendering it difficult for me to slither off the couch to get a glass of water and a handful of Ibuprofen. But I always managed, because I had some celebrating to do. I would grab the phone and call all of my friends, croaking through the pain: "My period's here. I'm not pregnant! Let's go have some drinks, bitches!" Those drunks were always ready to oblige.
But this morning, as I sat down to write this and then just so happened to review one of my other posts from this week, I began to re-evaluate my stance on PMS.
I'm pretty sure that it might actually exist...and that perhaps it's something one grows into, in which case: I'M THERE.
Or maybe I'm just becoming an asshole.
Ah, well. Time will tell. Check back with me tomorrow.