Or, "A day in the life of an emotionally unstable, painfully sensitive, and probably premenstrual housewife."
I'll let you in on a not-so-secret secret. I might have a slight tendency to become just the smallest bit irrational. A little sensitive and somewhat reactive. Even approaching, sometimes, quite unhinged. The timing of these events may, or may not coincide with what some might consider a hormone fluctuation known as "P.M.S." Personally, I think this is largely an urban legend, and that a more believable explanation is that everyone and everything around me suddenly becomes an asshole once every month...
Me: "WHY AREN'T THERE ANY GODDAMN CHIPS IN THIS HOUSE?!"
Frightened cat: O.o
Frightened husband: I think your son ate all the chips.
Me: "DAMMIT! HE'S the reason I can't have nice things!"
Dear kid, don't be an asshole.
Me: "JEEZUS, you're working late AGAIN!?"
Frightened husband: "I work nights. It's just my shift."
Me: "What am I, too fat for you now?"
Frightened husband: "I don't even..."
Me: "Are you having an affair with that woman in the office?!"
Frightened husband: "You mean the old lady with cataracts?"
Me: "Hey, bring me some chocolate when you come home, ok? I love you so much!"
Confused husband: "I don't even..."
Dear husband, don't be an asshole.
Me: "WHAT THE?! YOU STUPID PIECE OF GARBAGE! WTF IS YOUR PROBLEM?! IF YOU'RE NOT GOING TO WORK, THEN WTF GOOD ARE YOU?! JEEZUS I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY I PUT UP WITH YOU, YOU STUPID PIECE OF CRAP!!"
Malfunctioning TV Antenna: (Does not respond, due to being an inanimate object with no lips or vocal cords. Also, probably, because it is an asshole.)
Me: "I WILL KILL EVERYONE IN THE WORLD!"
Dear malfunctioning TV antenna, don't be an asshole.
Me: (Uncontrollable sobs)
Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias: (Dies.)
Me: (continued sobs)
Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias: (Ignores my desperate wailing, either due to the fact that she's a movie character and can't hear me, or because she's an asshole.)
Dear Julia Roberts in Steel Magnolias, don't be an asshole.
There is also an entire conversation that takes place between my frightened husband, myself, and my bra, but I kind of come off looking like a weirdo, and the story usually ends with more of my sobbing, so we'll just save that one for another time.
But, bra, don't be an asshole.
Seriously, it would all be so much easier if everyone, and everything on the planet would stop being an asshole at the beginning of the month. It's not nice, and it gives me headaches, and makes me crave chocolate like a Jerry Springer guest craves meth.
This message is brought to you by the letters P, M, and S, which I assume stand for "pummel", "murder", and "stab."