My boobs still hurt from my mammogram last Wednesday . . . I understand mammograms are important, but is pancake flat really necessary?
And the sore boobs only add to the lovely acne I have. I feel like I’m going through a second puberty and I look like a pizza. A pizza no one would want to eat because it hasn’t showered in three days. A pizza who had a plastic fork gut their uterus nearly a year ago and should not have PMS anymore.
This might also explain the magically disappearing bottle of wine and bag of chocolate covered almonds. And cheese ball. And the reappearing 5 or 8 pounds hanging around my gut making it look like I’m about to give birth to a toddler.
It’s really, really awful PMS. And it’s bad to say, but it’s kind of amusing to watch Michael tip toe around the house anticipating something horrible to come out of my mouth because he did something tragic like not turn the Christmas lights on in time or forget to brush the Aussie’s butts before they came in the house so they could wipe their own butts on the very expensive area rug.
I’m going to be optimistic and say it’s not PMS but early menopause. Because that would mean there is an end to this tragic roller coaster of hormonal death.
Are there any benefits to getting old? Because I feel like I should strip down naked and run through the streets warning all the teenagers of the world to take a good look and STOP AGING, because this hideous amount of geriatric insanity is just not worth it.
Okay, I’m done. I’m not qualified to get old. It’s irritating.
But buying shoes helps.