Premenstrual syndrome...

Once I dated a young gentleman who informed me I could not possibly suffer from PMS. A bulk of my life has been spent in belief of those I shouldn't and in disbelief of those I should believe most. Though it may be undiagnosed, I know my body and my reactions well enough to know that I am currently experiencing yet another monthly round of PMS. I have been diagnosed with much tougher labels than this one. There. I said it. Maybe that will be another entry.

Last night, Shannon and I thought about how long we had been menstruating for - thirteen years. That's right. I always thought I would get a late period and early menopause like my mother - a miracle, really.

Anyhow, I've been largely depressed, bloated, tired, greasy-food-or-candy-bar craving, irritable, moody, achey and tired. Given, many of these things plague me all four weeks of the month, but in particular strength right before my period.

So, here I am, a Sunday night. Utterly bored without reason. I could clean, I could rearrange my room as I've been planning, I could read, I could work on The Canary, I could send online messages to people I care about, I could make telephone calls I've been meaning to, go for a run even, knit perhaps.

Instead, I sit here, a bloated, sad faced mess of a young lady who still hasn't coped with these dysfunctions of mood after thirteen years of repetition. An estimated one-hundred and fifty six (156!) periods, not to mention the time in my life I got a period every other week.

I will continue to watch awful fictional crime television, look up information on PMS and think about how much my vagina has contributed to this growing landfill issue of ours. Or pick up the game of Pokemon Blue I've been working on for at least six months.

I hope quite honestly no one took the time to read this.
I do love womanhood.
I do love my period, most times.
And when it comes, it it always relieving to know either:
1. I'm not pregnant.
2. There is a semi-logical reason why I was fucking out of mind for the last week.

Once I read life described as a...

monumental grotesque joke. My state of mind at the time clung too heavily to the description, but in the very slightly jaded aftermath, the cold, humorous reality of it elicits a morning smile. Within the first fifteen minutes of wake up, life invariably trips:

my foot knocks over a week old glass of juice, my cigarette pack is empty, no coffee maker exists within the kitchen despite the new whole coffee beans and discovered coffee grinder, the toilet clogs, my hair looks ill despite any pressing and pulling and pinning. All these things that when they occur, it's a minute blip in mood, when they don't occur, it's a minute stabilization of my mood in the day to follow. Given, my morning usually starts at 12 pm.

Lately, the monumental grotesque joke has taken form and shape in my every day, the small things, separately, inconsequential, lumped together, a monument of going-wrong's, bad karma in a haphazard race for my mind's deconstruction. Yet, it ends with a joke. Laughter. A chuckle. A smile. A roll of the eyes sighing "of course".

And when the joke chokes harder, the grotesque tries to take precedence, I think about a future road trip here:

http://www.dinoworld.net/

And the joke resumes.

Laughter remains the foremost effective coping mechanism.