I don’t know what you’re talking about. This all seems totally rational.

Dear Local Supermarket,

I realize you had no way of knowing I was coming to you in a blind, Tasmanian-devil-grade cyclonic haze of hormones and exhaustion. 

However… When a woman approaches you wanting only ice cream and cheese, that is a very urgent list. Her needs must be met, or the villagers shall perish. 

But you did not have the ice cream I needed. 

“Chocolate peanut butter,” you say? Blow me. I need chocolate, peanut butter, salted caramel, brownie bits, and some swirly shit. I don’t even care what the swirly shit IS, I just need it to fucking SWIRL. 

You did not provide me swirly shit, and for that, you are dead to me. You hear me? Dead. You are an ex-parrot. 
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put salt on leftover macaroni salad from yesterday’s barbecue and call it dinner.

No love whatsoever and also go fuck yourself, 

Smug

Bitch Perfect

OK, logically — sciencely — I know menstruating has probably never killed anyone. 

But today it took two kinds of painkillers, three cups of coffee, the Pitch Perfect soundtrack, and a tablespoon of peanut butter eaten directly from the spoon to reassure me I won’t be Patient Zero. 

Eat a dick, Nature. 

Mmm… Delicious, delicious feelings…

I’d love to be able to blame PMS, but really, I just can’t foresee any reality that doesn’t involve these going in my face. And there was a coupon.

This is what we discuss over lunch.

Conversation with a friend:

Friend: “Man, if semen tasted like peanut butter…”
Me: “Oh, I’d be tapping that shit like a keg.”
Friend: “You’d think God would figure out a way to make that happen.”
Me: “Well, God or Pfizer.”