Carbs, cheese, salt, repeat. And also cake.

Added to an already solid foundation of mac & cheese, pierogies, and cheesy pretzel bites. And wine.

Um, no, YOU have PMS.

I regret nothing.

Pizza cures PMS. That’s science, right?

One side of brain: “No, we’re trying not to eat our feelings, remember? We’re trying to eat better and practice healthier coping mechanisms. We are stronger than food.”

Other side of brain: “Fuck you, we’re REALLY not. I demand six Egg McMuffins and a few shots of whatever will sedate me. Literally, whatEVER: Wine? Prozac? Cough syrup? Horse tranqs? BRING IT.”

Buffalo mozzarella sticks, guys. Do you know what that is? It’s mozzarella sticks, doused in buffalo sauce, AND THEN YOU DIP THEM IN BLUE CHEESE. It is sexy, cheese-on-cheese action. It is fucking vile…and also quite possibly the best thing in the world. A nice man would deliver it to my door — along with a pizza — for a nominal fee, because America is AMAZING.

P.S. I will obviously also need a cake, because “It says right here, it is a dessert wine.”

P.M.S. P.S.

The P.S. on an email to friends about all my special feeeeelings:

“I’m also menstruating, so kindly accept this grain of salt. Just a grain, though — I’ll bite your goddamn hand off if you take my salt.”

Sometimes it’s a stereotype for a reason.

  

Auntie AmericAnne’s

OK, I don’t really enjoy malls, but if it’s where you insist on keeping my hormonal Bat-Signal… 

 And yes, I absolutely dipped those little buttery bastards in additional cheese sauce. LIKE AN AMERICAN.

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