PMT’s calling me. Like a banshee about to released its gathering momentum for an all out screaming whirlwind adventure. I can feel it gathering power inside of me to break free.
Poor Drew.
Despite my adoration for him, this shits going to bite him hard this month, and lets face facts in full thro of PMT mania I am simply not going to give a shit. Along with my previously mentioned Man Manuel that should be given to us at birth, I am thinking that the NSH should supply us with punch bags when we start our periods.
I can see the benefit of it even if not everyone can. I’m only half kidding when I say that my fitted kitchen has had fixtures and fittings come loose when I decide that something (normally insignificant) is getting on my nerves. Even poor little kittens on the street look like something I want to ambush and not cuddle.
Maybe there should be a women only holiday every month, so for four days we get to stay indoors, PMT respite it could be called. In that time we would have meals on wheels deliver us dinner (ok sorry, chocolate and fizzy drinks) and movies to our preference on demand (for me I am thinking anything that’s got a few good punches thrown in it!) and our phones/all outside communication should be banned.
It’s the least the world could do for women … don’t you think?
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