This week has truly been one of the longest weeks on record. There's been tears, there's been tantrums, there's been songs and dancing and laughing and redecorating and some more crying and some swearing, and threats of quitting and suicide and GBH and that was all just on Wednesday.
It's difficult being a lady. I never appreciated it when I was younger, when people would complain about how PMT was ruinging their lives. So you get a little weepy, I'd think to myself, so what? Have a bath, eat some chocolate, everything will be better. I've heard it said before, but never thought that it was true, that your hormonal level rises and becomes more complicated and ruinous as you get closer to a certain age category - the one that evil fucking doctors this week are calling "mature", in terms of baby-making capabilities - but it seems that's happening to me, whether I choose to accept it or not.
I came thisclose this week to telling my boss to go fuck himself, because I decided he was looking at me a bit funny. I came thisclose to punching someone on the tube because I decided that she'd walked into me on purpose. I came thisclose to buying flights home and sodding everything else, because I couldn't bear the thought of being in this hot, smelly, unfriendly city one more moment. I came thisclose to hugging a complete stranger because she stepped to one side to let me on to a very crowded tube carriage. I came thisclose to proposing marriage to my flatmate because she offered to give me a hug cos I looked like I needed one. I came thisclose to singing all the way to work this morning because my mood was so greatly improved. And. It's. All. Hormonal.
Fucking hell, if the mood swings keep up this kind of pace, I'll be locked in an institution before the end of the year. I was in a shop buying lunch yesterday, and a song came on, and I had to leave the shop without buying anything because I was about to fall into a corner then and there and sit and cry for the rest of the day. Same song heard today in my lunchbreak had me smiling all the way down the road. Exactly the same song.
Me needs me some help. Evening primose oil can sod off, I feel. Time for the big guns now. It's not a good sign when the temperature of the water coming out of the shower head in your bathroom has the ability to reduce you to tears or have you singing Scissor Sisters all day. He Who Only... has been astonishing in his generosity of ignoring the rantings of what are obviously a completely unhinged girlfriend, and I publicly thank him very much for his continuing patience in this, our difficult time. I can only promise that Boots finest will be put into action tomorrow, if not sooner, in an effort to find some solution to this atrocity. In the meantime, ladies of the audience, I ask a very serious question indeed - what can be done to stop me harming myself and all others around me once a month for the next 15 odd years I'm still fertile?
Very many thanks indeed.
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