Dear PMT

Dear PMT

Please can you just Fuck Off!!

You really are a hateful little bastard aren’t you :O

There I was yesterday, all good in my hood, body feeling fine, carelessly floating through life, not many cares in the world and a whole lot of love for myself and those around me

And then today….

Oh no, today, that’s a whole different story!!

I knew you had arrived when I stepped off the bed and my boobs felt like lead weights, sore to the touch, my soft pj vest top now feeling like wire wool against my nipples

Walking to the shower, it was evident that there was some pre-menstrual bloating because my usual thigh rubbage (no gap here) was no longer rubbage but actual skin stuck together through sheer bloatage :O

When I got downstairs, I seem to have actually lost the capacity to smile, my face hung like all the muscles have given up the fight and handed over to the misery you’ve put upon us. I look at my husband, he smiles and I want to punch him clean in the face for no other reason than that he smiled? With you here calling the shots PMT, it doesn’t even feel like an extreme reaction to have, instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world… want to punch a grown man, square in the face, because he smiled at you.

So I go along with my dark cloud, fluid retention and prickly boobs and I set upon my day, you with a tight hold, me feeling like I’m losing the will to live

My morning is filled with you presenting me mental images of a huge jar of Nutella and a teaspoon, goading me with a hateful rage and a genuine need for junk food.

Lunchtime comes and there you are with your wicked ways, and before I know it I’m sitting at the ‘order here’ box at McDonalds

Your voice say’s ‘Big Mac meal’ whilst my mind screams ‘NOOOOO’

The kind young man oblivious to my hormonal battle ground hands me a brown paper bag full of brown cardboard food, and he smiles

*must not punch the kind young man*

It is clear that for the time you are here, I have no control, I feel ALL the feels, I eat ALL the food, I am a slave to your ultimate power, and then your mate turns up……the misery chaser, the week of feminine challenge, the much anticipate, rarely celebrated (expect for the time where there’s bee a slip up) PMT hands the hormonal baton to your period. And so a new chapter of this ‘being a women is shit sometimes’ begins, but even though on a practical level it demands more attention than it’s old mucker PMT, it’s still a much welcomed relief from the hell that comes before

But for now, whilst I wait for another monthly visit from my Aunty Flow, I’ll be spending the next few hours eating Nutella straight from the jar and greasing up my inner thighs patiently waiting for you to fuck right off!

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