Me And PMS: A Conversation
Me: What a lovely morning! It's finally a decent temp outside.
PMS: Shut up, bitch, and get back in bed. Nothing good is going to happen today.
Me: Ummm...that seems a little harsh.
PMS: I know more than you. Don't get out of bed.
(2 hours later and I'm out of bed)
Me: Oh yay! My cute jeans! These will look so good with that thermal top.
Me: Why are you laughing?
PMS: You literally ate 75 pounds of chocolate last night. Do you REALLY think those "cute jeans" are going to look so cute now?
Me: I mean...
PMS: Nope. You will look like you are stuffing an entire ham into a meatball. No go, girl.
Me: Fucking hell. Well, I'm trying them on anyway.
PMS: It's your death.
Me: (can't button the jeans)
PMS: It's one of those times I probably shouldn't say I told you so, but...
Me: I swear to god if you say it, I will slit your throat.
PMS: Seems about right.
Me: I hate you.
PMS: Yep, go back to bed. You should've never left.
(Gets comfy in bed again, but then...)
Me: I'm hungry
PMS: Of course you are, sweetie, of course you are.
(Gets up, eats everything in the pantry, including the stale Saltines I've been meaning to throw out for the past two months)
Me: Those were good.
PMS: (rolls eyes) Of course they were.
Me: Did you just roll your eyes are me?!
PMS: (avoids eye contact) No! I would never!
Me: (side eyes PMS. Pauses) Let's watch some TV.
PMS: Not a good idea, friend.
PMS: You'll see...
(Cut to me hysterically crying at every single commercial ever made.)
Me: (sniffling) Did you see how that soldier dad surprised his daughter?! At her Christmas concert?!
PMS: Yep. You shouldn't be watching TV.
Me: Let's look up starving children in Africa.
PMS: WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?
Me: YOU! YOU ARE WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME! GIVE ME THE FUCKING COMPUTER NOW OR I WILL KILL EVERYTHING YOU HOLD DEAR!!!!
PMS: Fair enough. (hands computer over)
Me: Thank you.
PMS: (mumbling) Like I had a choice...
Me: I wouldn't go the sarcastic route. Dick.
(Another two hours later. Looking in the mirror, tweezers in hand)
Me: Why the fuck can't I find that chin hair?! I can feel it, but I can't see it!
PMS: The lighting in here is terrible. And good thing because you are blotchy, bloated, and covered in hair.
Me: I am going to murder your face. Hard..
PMS: Good luck. Bitches been trying to get rid of me for years. Not gonna happen.
Me: Oh yeah...
(Goes to medicine cabinet, pulls out Xanax)
PMS: Try it, you'll just get more lethargic and miserable.
PMS: Any other brilliant ideas?
(Goes to fridge, pulls out a pint of Labatt)
PMS: Ha! Let's see how this plays out.
Me: Cheers, fuck face.
(chugs the pint, cracks open another, chugs that one too.)
(And he fades off into the distance. Until the beer wears off.)