443 Days - PMS's Older, 'Roided Up Sister

I might just be getting angrier with age. No. I am abso-f*cking-lutely getting angrier with age. This can’t be good for my heart, and now that I’m on the eve of “F” word, I’ve got to start looking at that stuff like I never have before. Stress. It’s my biggest issue, and that’s the truth. Everything stresses me out. I overreact about the silliest shit and it’s going to put me in an early grave. I just know it.

You ever think about what your life will be like at 80? I don’t. I’ve never been able to picture myself that old. It’s like I’ve always had this feeling that I won’t make it. Isn’t that horrible? I make this stuff up in my head all the time, too. Every flight I take without my kids or family always feels like it’s going to be my last. Every flight I take with them does, too. My buttocks get their best workout on my 50 minute commute to work every morning because they are clenched unbelievably tightly; waiting for some car to sideswipe me or some bridge overhead to fall on me. It’s a horrible way to live, but for some reason I feel like I need to prepare myself for some disastrous outcome because there is just no way I’m lucky enough to live to a ripe old age and watch my grandkids play in the backyard of my rancher in Polk County, Florida. Horrible. Simply horrible. And my bitterness and worrisome nature is starting to get to me.

And then, there’s the PMDD. Look it up. It’s PMS’s older, more ‘roided up, power-lifting sister. Yeah, I’ve got that, too. Lucky me, eh? Or rather, lucky Todd. Poor Todd. If he blinks in the wrong direction I’m all over him like a naked Kardashian to a video camera. I’ve even noticed myself frothing at the mouth on a few occasions. I get so angry during this time of the month that I’ve seriously considering moving myself to the nearest Holiday Inn Express and telling my kids that I’m on a business trip. What in the world must it be like to live with me? I’m a graying, aging, flabby stressball with raging monthly hormones and a mouth like a VH1 Mob Wife. Thank God I can cook or else I seriously think my ass would have hit the pavement years ago. Maybe this blog will de-stress me. Maybe writing about my problems or airing my personal issues here will allow me to come to terms with them a little better, thus starting the process of remedying the most troublesome ones so that my quality of life improves. Or, maybe, a fairy will fly out of my rear end tomorrow holding a sign that says “get over yourself, asshole” written in gold glitter. I think the latter is more likely, personally.