Every organ I own is mad at me and I just want fries

The fact that you turn into the Tasmanian Devil auditioning for a telenovela a week before your period…

Us women? We go through hormonal fluctuations more unstable than a Shakespearean actor having a meltdown in an IKEA. One moment we’re chilling, the next we’re planning a silent funeral for our will to live because we got offended by how loudly the fridge hums. Those mood swings; try shifting between rage, despair, and uncontrollable laughter in the time it takes someone to blink. And if one more man brings up getting hit in the balls, I swear…
Don’t talk to me about balls. I cried because my charger fell. Then I laughed. Then I hated you.
And then I wanted a croissant.

Speaking of croissants, we devour everything like we’re preparing for a famine that starts in 20 minutes. And not cute food like “oh I’m craving strawberries ☺️” During those times, I want Satan’s forbidden buffet: nachos, lava cake, raw cookie dough, pickles dipped in chocolate. I could eat drywall if it had salt on it. And fullness? Concept unknown. I could swallow a small goat and still look in the fridge like a raccoon on meth.

What’s more, those period shits (which I analyzed in detail on another post of mine). Like my colon’s staging a Broadway production of “Les Miserables”, starring explosive diarrhea as Jean Valjean. You sit down innocently, thinking it’s gonna be a quick one, and five minutes later you’re gripping the sink, praying, sweating, reconsidering your life choices, wondering if this is how the dinosaurs died. My uterus is saying, “If I suffer, so does your digestive tract, bitch.” But please, for the love of God, don’t forget those farts. Hitler would be jealous of those gases. He’d shut down the missile program and go,
“Forget ze tanks! Get me this woman and feed her lasagna!” I’m pretty sure if I let one rip during WWII, we’d all be speaking German right now.

Anxiety? Depression? Yes… just like that! AH 💦 Sprinkle that on top. Just casually contemplating the meaning of life while crying at a toothpaste commercial.

Horny? No, babe. Horny is cute. This is unholy. This is “put a warning label on me or I might hump a bookshelf” kind of unhinged. I walk around like a Victorian widow who’s been celibate for decades and just saw a man’s wrist. I would climb a traffic cone in heat if it offered me eye contact. Every man looks like a viable candidate for ruin. I once stared at a curtain rod and thought, “well, it’s long and supportive.” The brain is on the floor whispering “please don’t,” the ovaries are loading the shotgun, and the dignity packed a bag and fled the country. I would climb a cactus if it whispered “you up?”

And finally… she arrives.
The Lady in Red, sashaying into your life like she owns the place. If I could sue her for emotional damage, I would. But I’d probably get dismissed in court. Oh wait, women get dismissed for everything anyway, so who cares! 😌✨