What PMS Sounds Like In My Head

“Good Morning. Everything sucks. Especially you. You suck.”

“It’s 8 o’clock already, for crying out loud, where’s my cheeseburger?”

“I hate all of your clothes. You look like a bag lady. Why do you even bother wearing a bra?”

“Hey! You should cut your own bangs. Yea, like that, that looks pretty good. Just a few more snips so they’re too short and you’re crying. There. That’s it.”

“Wanna start a fight? I’ll get your mother on the phone.”

“Your family is so annoying. I feel like they’re only jerks like this when I’m around. The sound of your husband chewing is making my ears bleed. And those two smaller ones can’t even dress themselves.”

“Now would be a good time to yell about how no one appreciates you. Do these people think their closets magically replenish themselves with lavender fresh clothes or that the refrigerator stocks itself with organic produce from three different grocery stores?”

“You never let me smash anything. You’d feel so much better if you broke all these dishes instead of washing them, or if you threw baseball-size rocks at passing cars, from the front porch. At least let me slam a couple doors.”

“Your house is a pit. If you don’t chisel the burnt food from the stove-top and wipe down all the door frames and baseboards in the next twenty minutes, I’m burning the place down.”

“Let’s run away. Better yet, I’ll get everyone else to run away. It’s raining outside though and they look pretty comfortable. I don’t think a standard tantrum will get them out the door this time. I’ll go ahead and work up a total meltdown. If you could choke-sob and hyperventilate yourself into a pile on the floor, that’d be helpful.”

“No, don’t shower today. For all the effort, it won’t noticeably lessen the amount of self-loathing we’ve got going on here.”

“What is with you? Do you even have any real problems, you shallow, privileged little twit? Every time I see you, you’re a snarling, pitiful mess. Get a handle on yourself.”

“I’m insulting? Just think of all those poor people who have to look at your face.”

“What is your purpose in life, exactly?”

“I thought you were a writer. Why aren’t you writing anything? You’re just sitting in front of the computer like the idiot you are. Wait, I see you have an idea. Nope. That’s stupid. Delete it. You should give up.”

“What do you mean, it’s my fault you’re like this? I think this is just how you are now. It isn’t going to get any better. The walls of your mind are crashing in and people in white coats are coming to take you away.”

“Wait! Where do you think you’re going? Why do have your running shoes on? What is this “acupuncture” appointment I see on your calendar? Is that a meditation pillow? Do I smell bath salts? Screw this noise. I’m not sticking around for this.”