Self magazine is as full of shit as any piece of crap woman’s magazine has ever been. Ever how much calcium coupled with ever how much magnesium does NOT do away with PMS, not in the slightest. What it does is make your PMS sixty-three times worse than it’s ever been before. Today, I have: stomped my Walkman to pieces, swore loudly at each and every red light I came across, entertained thoughts of taking Fancypants out into the country and dropping him off in front of some anonymous farmhouse, snarled at a Staples cashier, and sighed in a loud and repeatedly annoyed manner at the two 70 year-old women who kept chattering through the trailers before Bridget Jones’s Diary started. Oh, and had a bitchy, hissyfit-like conversation with my shorts as I walked down the street, due to their insistence on riding up between my thighs. And thought about putting my motherfucking fist through my motherfucking monitor because my motherfucking internet access has been going down every 9.8 seconds. And been pissed because during the 6 seconds my motherfucking internet access has NOT been down, I haven’t been able to access Diarist.net’s list page, so I don’t dare to try to send out a notify via that list. Where will the Bitchypoo notify list move next? Oh, the excitement! And felt guilty because I’m about a week behind in my emailing/ journal reading. I swear I’ll get to it one of these days.

Needless to say, I’m in a horrible, terrible, no-good, very bad mood, and I’m going to take a few days off from the journal and away from the computer. I may be back before the end of the week, I may not. I’m sure I’ll be back next Monday, with bells on, ready to go, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and all that. See you sooner or later! —–