“Pop. Six. Squish. Uh uh. Cicero. Lipschitz.”

Normally with people I like/love/respect, I’m very, “I’m not gonna diss you on the Internet, ’cause my mama taught me better than that.” It’s part of why I don’t talk much about my ex, because he’s still one of my best friends and I don’t need to air those issues publicly. My close friends and my therapist have heard it, and that’s enough. (Plus, if I ever said anything here that got back to him and hurt him, I’d jump out a window. [I know. Hence the therapist.])

But OTHER than him, we’re all OK with me being kind of an asshole on my own site on occasion, right? We know I’m a little insane but generally a nice human, except when I get pushed too far? Because tempers are gettin’ a little Jersey up in here at Smug HQ — people are stepping to my backyard swagger. So, um…fair warning, sometimes I’m an asshole, but generally only in writing. (And in my defense, it really does take a lot. I mean…they had it comin’…)

(I love that I’m clarifying as if any of you gives a dick if I’m not Gandhi.)

In which PMS makes me a more efficient employee.

Email to friends:

“I have PMS, so I’m exhausted, and miserable, and I just want to be in bed, and the quantity of food I ate for ‘dinner’ last night actually verged on obscene.

“But I’m also short-tempered, and far less concerned about being nice. I’m being polite, but blunt, so — politely — fuck you right in the eye, Coworker, for replying to my request for shit I should already HAVE with what amounts to ‘go fetch!’ and a smiley. I don’t have the patience to sugar-coat shit today. Give it.

“I should always have this. I am drunk with power. And irritability. (And possibly some sort of angry dairy-based residue from eating all the cheese on earth yesterday.)”