Friday, April 20, 2007

That Time

I’m not saying that it’s almost “that” time of the month but I just finished inhaling a chocolate bar and am debating whether or not it would be consider piggish to bake and eat an entire pan of brownies all by myself. Since I know I’m not the only woman on the planet who wishes that food would magically appear when she craved it, I am doing my best to be brave and not give into my desire to preheat the oven.

In honor of women everywhere I dug out this poem from my girlhood at The Abbey. I’m not sure who wrote it, other than that it was obviously penned by a woman who knew that brownies were never meant to be shared.

Ode to PMS

This is the story of the deadly curse,
We’re writing it down verse by verse.

In case you haven’t been able to guess,
We’re talking about PMS.

I feel like I’m in a living tell,
As I sit and watch my ankles swell.

I feel like my eyeballs are about to float,
As pound after pout I begin to bloat.

I sit here eating a ton of junk food,
Hoping to cure this ugly bad mood.

Because of these cramps I feel a pain,
Maybe it’s all this water gain.
I don’t like to complain of the pain in my head,
But the way I feel: I’m better of dead.

They tell I’m crazy, they tell I’m mad,
It’s times like these I wish I were Dad.

I want to scream, I want to shout,
Form reason my family wants to move me out.

Don’t bother me, get out of my face,
I’m not longer part of the human race.

I feel so ugly I should wear a sack,
Just think in 28 days "IT" will be back.

1 comment:

Pie said...

Bake the brownies. You're entitled for sure. Then order your Karl, to fetch you more.

Now.