Okay, I have been waiting on a certain vistor since before July 4th--Aunt Flow has decided to visit everyone else on the planet but me.
I have 30 days of pent up PMS to unleash on someone, somewhere, and The Man says he doesn't want it. (In fact, he's cowering under the furniture and thrusting the kids into the line of fire, figuring I won't maim the fruit of my loins. Stupid man. Two of those are MALE!)
I don't know who I have to speak with. I don't know who I have to bribe. I'm willing to hunt down a virgin to sacrifice (which might take a while these days!).
All I want is what is rightly mine as a member of the female sex.
I want my period. Period.
After a month of cramps, bloating, and irritability (way more than normal, which, if you know me, is very bad!), I think it's time Aunt Flo stops by. Whoever has her, tell her to pack her bags and catch the next Greyhound. I will be waiting on the porch for her arrival.
And hurry. The Man's back is killing him from crouching under the table for so long.
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