Monday.

Woke up to Braden screaming at 7am and said to John, “Can you let me sleep in just a little today?  I’m so tired and feel like I’m getting sick.”

Response?  “I guess so.”

And immediately?  I wanted to fly at him like a Banshee and rake my fingernails across his face.  I wanted to wrap my hands around his neck, while the Medusa Snakes sprung one by one from my scalp, and shake him until his head fell off, while screaming, “YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO SAY BUT.OF.COURSE.DEAR, WITH A SMILE, YOU ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!!!”

*ahem*

I closed my eyes again and John left to take care of Braden. 

Less than 5 minutes later he deposited Braden (screaming and crying) in the bedroom.  That’s how you let someone sleep in, didn’t you know that?

He had to rinse out a Poop Diaper, so, yeah.  I got up to take care of Braden. 

And you know what?  I decided that Mondays are great days for refusing to wear clothes.  That’s right.  Down to the kitchen for breakfast in my bra and underwear.  Because putting on clothes would be the decent thing to do, but why should I be expected to do the decent thing?  I am clearly not meant to be held to such lofty standards such as “expected” and “decent.”  Nope.  Didn’t feel like it. 

Braden got Panty Theatre while he ate his cereal.

(Funny aside: He pulls the top of my shirts down lately and sticks his hand inside, saying, “Beeeooobeee!” Hilarious.)

Sat on the couch, in my underwear, and watched Sesame Street.

Almost had a Bonafied Mental Breakdown (complete with screeching and panic-attack-like chest tightness!) when Braden peed a huge puddle in the kitchen, then got down on all fours and splashed it alllll around, completely dousing his hair.

Mmmm, Pee-Hair!

Seethed in John’s general direction when he left the house to take some gear to a gear-repairing-type person.  HOW DARE HE FLEE THE DOMICILE?

Finally put some shorts on.  Told Braden to, “stop whining because that is annoying.”  HAHAHA, POT SAYS TO KETTLE!

Basically? I acted like a SHIT for most of the morning.  Then I started working on posts and whatnot, and I kept thinking, “What the hell is up with me?” and “What am I going to write about today?  I usually know by now…” and then I realized it.

I’m in a funk.  Because my body is a whiny pansy-baby hormonal suckface.

Last night, while John bathed Braden, I sat on the couch and ate pretzels with peanut butter and started crying at something on King of the Hill.  Why, hello there, PMS!  How lovely to see you! 

Dear PMS: I hate you.  I hate your emotional rollercoaster, and I hate what you herald.  I hate what’s coming next week and I hate everything else right now, too.  Thanks for that. 

Basically, PMS?  I hate you, and I hate your ass.face.