If you haven’t experienced PMS, then you are lucky. As in you’d be safe swimming the estuaries of far north Queensland lucky. This is true for men and women, but more for men. I’m sure women get to enjoy the psychoactive effects of all those hormones raging through their system, men cop it dead bang and for a man like myself that doesn’t drink, well, I have no anaesthetic for the pain. Unfortunately, we will never know, due to having no one to give a female version of events, this being the Internet and all. Oh, there will be trolls attempting to tell you otherwise, probably with female sounding names; Lily, Katriona, Sirc. But we all know the truth, there are no women on Bullshido, and if they claim to be, they are just confused men.
So as a male coming home on a delightful Tuesday, I may think, hey, here is a conversation starter! I reply, “You have cramps? Oh yeah, I get cramps all the time, shit, before I found Berocca I used to cramp up every night at training.” Bam, said the wrong thing, idiot.
“Want a hug?” Are you retarded, fuckbrain? She just told you she have cramps.
“Honey, you seem to be throwing a lot of objects at my head, is it that time of the month?” Oh, I done fucked up now.
Men know when it is the woman’s time of the month instinctually, a fact that I divulge on the internet safe in the knowledge that I am not revealing any secret men’s business to any women. The problem is when we live with women, we can’t escape them. Always use your instincts BEFORE moving in with them. Spend time with them on what would be their worst days and THEN decide whether you want to move in with them.
Men know it is the woman’s of the month. The woman knows it is their time of the month. And STILL the topic must be danced around like some sort of tribe preparing a cannibalistic feast. With the man in the stew with an apple stuffed in his fucking mouth. A woman will even tell you that it is coming up to that time of the month, possibly in conversation about how fucking stressful you, as the man, made everything last time she flipped out and decided you were emotionally unavailable. This is where you should start organising to help your friend move, clean out the garage, beat your head against the wall for forty eight hours.
Now, if you are retarded, you probably haven’t picked up on the subtle notion that I am in the thick of a PMSing woman at home and her resulting insanity. You would be blissfully unaware that at 3am last night she decided, as I lay next to her snoring, that I had neglected her emotional needs. She penned an exceptionally long text message and sent it to me so that when I woke up, I was greeted with a point form essay of the things I had done that made her feel like our relationship was on rocky ground. My reaction to this in the early hours before work was to ask in no uncertain terms, “what the fuck is this shit?” A question I rightly assumed had strong basis due to going to bed with her in my arms and a smile on both our faces.
Now, if you know anything about the PMSing woman, you will know that she is, at heart, a woman. And as we know from all those status updates on facebook and in no way predated the advent of the internet, Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. Asking in no uncertain terms, “what the fuck is this shit?” is apparently doing some serious scorning.
The other thing I know about women, being that I am a PhD in Womening, is that when they say they don’t hold grudges, they do. That when their fury is unleashed, the grudges are set upon the man, but not released, like several pitbulls sic’d on a bear but all of them retained on a leash. And once the job is done the pitbull’s chains are shortened and they are put in their cages at the pitbull adoption kennel, which is forever gathering more pitbulls for the next round on the bear. The bear is the man in this analogy.
So here I am, Day 1 of a three to four day ordeal, my mouth is dry, my heart rate is racing, my hands shaking and my head hurting. I am in need of sleep, but fear closing my eyes. Oddly enough the only thing I don’t fear is the severing of my penis, as she enjoys that too much, but I have legit concerns that if she found a way to make me a vegetable with working genitalia, I’d be fucked (and the coma would mean I wouldn’t enjoy it).