P.M.S. = Psychotic Mood Shift
P.M.S. = Potential Murder Suspect
P.M.S. = Purchase More Shoes
P.M.S. = Punish Men Severly
- Shark Week
- Surfing the crimson wave (will never go out of style)
- Having your garage painted
- Joining the cast of Pad Men
- Baby is in the corner
- Birthing a blood diamond
- On Wednesdays we wear pink
- Paging Edward Cullen
- Parting the Red Sea
- Kelly Kapowski can’t make it to cheerleading practice
- The tomato soup is on the boil
- Red Wedding
- Red sails in the sunset
- Being dishonorably discharged from the Uterine Navy
- Riding the cotton pony
- Postponing your visit to Maury, aka, Not The Father Week
- Carrie at the prom
- Miss Scarlett has returned to Tara
- Rusty pipes
- Ordering clams with red sauce
- Smoking a lady cigar
- Massacre at the Y
- Arts and crafts week at Panty Camp
- The Great Flood Cometh
- Cleansing your palate
Call it what you want. It stinks.it’s gross. It’s a royal pain in the ass. I despise it.
I’m moody,bordering on psychotic and liable to gouge your eye out if you so much as look at me wrong for eating directly out of the ice cream gallon prior to dinner.
My boob’s feel as though they are being dipped into a vat of boiling oil or Tarzan is swinging from them.
I am bloated, like worse than after Thanksgiving dinner and I just can’t fart it “away” and you want to tell me about your day???
Please do us both the favor of punching yourself in the throat before the fantasy I am playing in my head becomes your reality.
I want to exercise, I really do, but it’s exhausting just thinking about shoving blob after blob of bloated fat into yoga pants. It’s not going to happen. Not today,maybe not tomorrow.
Don’t get your hopes up for dinner either.
Everything, including the dog looks edible. Nothing is satisfying.
You know those White Castle hamburgers you had stashed in the freezer? Yeah….well, they were breakfast.
And the General Tao’s chicken you’ve been begging me to make? I made a huge batch of it for lunch so there would be leftovers for you. But I ate every dam piece. Every. Single. One.
And I am not sorry.
I really could care less about carbs or grams or sugars. All I care about is keeping my face filled so some dumb random bitch filled rant about how “you never do anything around here” and ” You don’t understand how it feels to bleed to death” spews out of my mouth.
Be happy that I at least flush the toilet and empty out the trash you ungrateful rats!!
I am tired. I am bored. I am starving. I’m going to puke from eating so much. Hug me, Get the Hell away from me, why won’t you talk to me? Please shut up, your voice is like nails on a chalk board.
I’m hungry(again). I have been watching episode after episode of The Walking Dead. A marathon of gore if you will, and I am content. They all look like how I feel. Dead. Inside and out.
My “Mom Hair” actually looks like a “Rats Nest”
My T Shirt has more stains on it than a rag in a auto garage.
I have the “Granny Bra” and matching panties to boot.
The eyeliner is so yesterday as well.
So today I think I’ll leave my trusty,handy,dandy yoga pants neatly folded in my dresser and I’ll proudly strut around in my 11 year old sweatpants that make you cringe every time you see them.
The words “sexy” or “hot” had better only be used to describe a classic automobile in my presence.
“Honey”,”Babygirl” and “Princess” are the only terms I will acknowledge, and it will be with a grunt or a growl, Can’t promise you which one.
So pass the remote,throw me a Carmel Snickers bar and you go play with our offspring before I “Off” you by burning a hole through your head with one of my soul piercing death stares.