PMS brings out the darkest of the dark side in me.
Okay, so sometimes I
How I hate being POOR.
How...challenging it is to still be feeding and diapering and carrying my boy on my hip after nearly thirteen years (God willing, I'll be doing it for the rest of my life).
How sometimes I just don't think I handle not one more single second of my life.
How my heart hurts and my back aches and my head pounds and oh-for-the-love-of-the-sweet-baby-Jesus how tired I am. Right down to the bone.
Things aren't all sunshine & lollipops & puppy kisses, I'm not cut out to be chipper, and I have a tendency toward depression and anxiety (thank you ZOLOFT for my functionality!).
Here's what: Don't you ever, ever send me another email accusing me of "overplaying the sympathy card".
Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, partner.
I don't care how well-intentioned you think you are, and what "nice" terms in which you try to couch it.
What's it to you? Why does it matter?
Even though it's no business of yours what my motivations are, I'll tell you anyway.
I don't do it to get sympathy. Nor pity, thankyouverymuch. Keep your pity & shove it up where the sun don't shine.
I'm not trying to be inspiring--I'm not cut out for that. Wouldn't even know where to start.
If there's any point I would want to make, it would simply be that I'm not the bravest, strongest, or brightest...but if I can somehow manage, then you can manage your challenges (the REAL problems, I mean...not taking votes on what color to paint your widdle toesies and if you should go underwire or whether you should serve the caviar or lobster).
It's hard work, but the only way you can fail is if you quit.
And quite frankly, I just have to cut the beast loose now and again, otherwise it will devour me.
Once again, for those who just can't seem to understand: If you don't like what we serve here, go eat somewhere else.
That is all.
Have a day.