The Flesh Eating Zombie….

Okay,  I am a reasonably happy homo sapien 75% of the time.  I go about my business with a smile on my face, and sometimes, a lift in my loafers.  However, this all flies out the window at the end of the month.  Combine the premenstrual hormones and full moon?  I become one of two people:  a walking crying jag, or a demonic gnome, looking for my next kill.

“There once was a girl, with a little curl, right in the middle of her forehead.  When she was good?  She was very, very good-but when she was bad, she was horrid.”

Here is a sample of my behavior during the “horrid” days:  I become enraged and engorged at the slightest criticism, poke, or taunt.  I have been known to spew vitriolic rage at unsuspecting people; my poor husband for one.  Here is a recent conversation, while under the influence of FMRMS, or what I like to call full moon raging menopausal syndrome.  I wish I could call it pms, but that shipped sailed a few months ago.

“Honey, try to be happy today,” my husband whispers at 5:30 a.m.

Come again, mother f***er?  What are you saying?  That my depression doesn’t suit you?  Am I that big of a drag?  When fully awake, I run to my social media, and drop the bomb:  I will send him a depression meme, one that puts him in his place.  How DARE he ask me to be happy, I earned this, I inherited this condition.  Why, why I am going to go out for breakfast with my gal pal Dot and I won’t tell him where I am going.  I will ignore all texts, emails and Facebook messages.  I swear to God…I’ll……..(when the subject comes up later that day, Dwain looks at me as if I have channeled Lady Gaga in American Horror Story.)

The crying jags are the worst.  I have been seen bawling like a child because my cats killed a toad, vole, mouse, you fill in the blank.  I am sure my in-laws, who live across the street, hear my sobs.

“Poor BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”  I then yell at my cats, in a glass breaking pitch, and they run for cover, diving under trees, wheelbarrows, our four-wheeler…..

This is some bad juju, people.  For the love of God, somebody get this girl a chocolate bobka-and perhaps an Ativan or two.

 

 

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s