...and I'm begging to drag you down with me

I don't know if y'all have heard but this PMS biznatch is a real drag. It's been shadowing me since Friday and well, it's high time the bitch left me alone. I mean, if I had my way, the whole bloody kit and kaboodle would just fuck off entirely. And by bloody, I mean the somewhat vulgar British modifier, not a literal description of the evil that overtakes our girly bods every 28 days (give or take a day or two). Actually though, I'm quite delighted by the word's gross double meaning. I take back what I said... I'm officially referring to both meanings. Don't you "Eww!" me!

A week from now I'm sure I'll feel dandy. The pesky issues that seem so enormous and devastating right now will soon be forgotten. You know, this whole lack of an attention span coupled with pronounced short-term memory loss ain't half bad at times. Every now and then, it's good to embrace your shortcomings and nurture them a bit. After all, they have the potential to be a soothing balm on a rough patch or a legitimate excuse for appalling behavior (when used sparingly). Trust me.

But Sweet Jesus, Flo's precursor is making me really sad and schmoopie this month! It's not good to have a broadband connection under such conditions. I fear that over the course of the next week, this here blog will be loaded with Morrissey lyrics and atrocious sonnets. Consider yourselves warned.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to take my tired, my poor, my huddled masses and wrap them in the mopey comforts of The Cure's entire discography.