From blubbing at University Challenge to raging because your tits are on fire and LIFE IS SO UNFAIR, Lucy Sweet ponders the carousel of emotional cackery that is the ‘time of the month’.
Hello, my name is Lucy and I have two ovaries. One is a bit depressed, introspective and prone to melodrama. I call her Morrissey.
The other one? That’s celebrity rapper NICKI MINAJ. One minute she’s growling and ripping the head off a Sindy doll, the next she’s speaking in a strange posh English accent and asking if you’d like a cup of tea. Later on she might do a Maori haka, cry hysterically and dropkick the washing basket into a tree. Who knows?
Every month, I have no idea which one I’m going to be. But I know I’m not alone. After all, hormones are the bane of a woman’s existence, one of those ‘medical mysteries’ that nobody can be arsed looking into. Because they’re not serious, are they? Hormones just make you feel like crap all the time and make you blub at University Challenge and make you say mean things to your husband and kids, but here you go, have some EVENING PRIMROSE which is basically liquidised flowers in a massive rubber capsule that you can’t even swallow (haha – we made them really big as well, that’ll shut you up).
As you can tell, Nicki is in full effect so you bad bitches better listen or Imma gonna kick a kitten. Here’s a quick (and angry) ‘time of the month’ timeline, scientifically documenting each stage…
And it begins. One minute you’re handling life fine, the next you brush up very lightly against a doorframe and it’s like you got punched in the knockers by a Sherman tank. Suddenly you don’t feel so confident. Your tits are on fire. Life is so unfair. Life is sad. Everyone is horrible, aren’t they? Look at them, with their EARS and stuff. It hurts to put on a bra. DON’T ANYONE TOUCH ME. DON’T EVEN COME NEAR ME.
I don’t care if it’s not a word. Why are you nitpicking about words? Why don’t you appreciate anything I do? Nobody cares about me. I might as well just be a kitchen appliance. Just put a tinfoil hat on me and call me an Indesit3000 DOGSBODY. My life is horrible. I’m a SLAVE. Stop laughing. Why are you laughing at me? STOP LAUGHING AT MEEEEEE! *runs out of the room in tears*
Doritos. Sugar. Need to overuse social media to tweet about how you had four lunches. Mini Rolls x 5000. All the wine.
DO I FUCKING HAVE TO DO EVERYTHING ROUND HERE MYSELF?
Krying at the Kardashians (but Rob is depressed – am I the only person who can SEE?) Crying when your child does something either nice or horrible or doesn’t eat their dinner (see: Emotional overwhelmed-ness). Crying because we are all inevitably sliding down the tunnel towards death.
This whole sliding down the tunnel towards death thing is really starting to bother me. What if I die now? I mean, right now. What will people say about me at my funeral? MY HEART’S BEATING REALLY FAST AND I’VE GOT A PAIN IN MY ARM.
LET’S GET REALLY DRUNK HAHAHAHAHAHA yeah so what if it’s Tuesday.
Not to be confused with hangover (see above).
“Hi, aw you look nice today, is that a new top you’re wearing? Uhhhh…ggaaa…ahhh…I HATE YOU!! YOU LOOK LIKE A BLUEBERRY”. *HULK SMASH*
(NB: Don’t throw anything across the room that’s too valuable, too heavy, or too messily fragile. Or toddlers and small yappy dogs – no matter how much you’re tempted.)
“Hi. What’s up? Are you OK? You look a bit scared.”1821 Views
Lucy Sweet is a writer and incorrigible lard arse. Her nursery school teacher said she would never be a proper lady, and she was right.