Oh, the clock.

I am in alignment with the moon on the day that Slate magazine tells me my PMS is a figment of my culturally-indoctrinated imagination.  I don’t know if you have seen that article, dear readers, but it’s easily google-able right now.  It’s all in our heads.  It’s all made-up.  It’s all just women falling in line with some cultural edict we’re too stupid to throw over.

Obviously, my experience tells me how false this article is.  What happens in the privacy of my space once a month, a space, I’d have to argue is privater than I’d care for it to be, is about enduring these hormonal shifts.  If this were some sort of choice, to wake up in the morning and decide if today would be a day informed by the screwball effects of PMS or not, I’d choose not.  We all would.  But instead, we just wake up and maybe we choose to be positive because we’re just that tough and we know we’re feeling pushed internally, and we are able to ride it out and nobody knows, per se, that was PMS.  Other times, we choose to be positive and that shit just gets overridden by emotions that flood into our brain.  Mostly, we just wake up and try and have a day of our lives.  And because of where the calendar is, where our cycles are, because of what we’re doing to mind our health or not doing, in the void of any intention one way or another, we find ourselves doing some of the most stereotypical behaviors symptomatic of being in PMS.  Experiencing the headaches, the sore tits, the feeling starved and desperate, the anger, the mood swings, the whatever…that’s real.

I just hate any more of this widespread gaslighting.  This, oh, well, what if your experiences aren’t valid?  Let’s just devil’s advocate about whether or not you know what is happening in your own body.  Let’s just have a man tell you that, hey, you don’t, and you can…because you’re not some pre-menstrual hag…sit still and take it.


I want to go quickly in that I want to have time to play video games and…

Today’s the sort of day when you find your own language feels more like braying during a funeral, or bleating like a goat during a soliloquy.  All the cute little asides and clever bits you come up with settle wrong in the conversation.  I feel as though I am not catching the beat of the song, and even if I wait in silence until the refrain comes up again, I find I am getting the words wrong.  Best to just withdraw and try again tomorrow, I think, when my resources might be easier to corral.

As I’ve spent several hours dicking about with an oppressively low-res version of the little shop’s logo and trying to make a clean, nice email header that doesn’t look as low-res as the logo, using software that is non-responsive and imprecise.  I’m ready for a break.  A break even for complaining and cold water.  A break.


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