I am a hormonal bitch.
Three hundred and thirty three days of the yearly calendar, I can be politely described as saintly, very organised, motivated and relatively calm, my days are continuously filled with positivity, joy, happiness and laughter, birds tweet playfully in a halo around my head as I skip gleefully through every situation and hurdle elegantly over each barrier life unexpectedly whips out in front of me.
The remaining twelve days, sees a shift, an almighty turning point, where I become an unsightly demon, so disgustingly powerful I could pierce a fellow mans heart with a wicked glance, snarled lip and shrieking remark. I’m convinced I’m the spawn of the devil or at least we are related, I conjure up livid scenarios in my tangled mind and accuse, confirm and believe that those I love most are plotting against me. I have seriously considered investing in a straightjacket, padded room and mouth gag for such experiences when the underworld escapes through the vessel of my womb and regurgitates through my lurid tongue and unforgivable actions. I drive myself and more so others around the bend- the U bend to be precise, as my rather quaint and sociable conversational skills, flip and resemble that, or quite close to, the shitty toilet scene from Trainspotting.
The world is against me and I am left with no choice but to plan my escape to a remote desert island, where I will live alone and read ‘Heart and Soul’ by Maeve Binchy repeatedly whilst listening to ‘One more cup of coffee’ by Bob Dylan on a loop. No one loves me anyway! What can I offer? My very existence is as crumbly and nutty as the whole packet of almond cookies I devoured, in bed, whilst binging on ‘Californication’ -where the lead character is almost as unfortunate but incredibly more fortunate than I am.
My anger multiplies as my sanity implodes and it’s the end of the world, as we know it- either that or someone, regrettably, forgot to squeeze the toothpaste from the bottom of the tube and clearly expected me to rinse out the bathroom sink, a likely scene to send me in a frenzy, a quivering mess, sinking to the tiled floor, veins pulsating as a voice whispers- ‘did you remember to take your medication darling?’ That’s it! I’m leaving, slamming the front door off it’s hinges, so forceful none of the coordinated pictures are left hanging in the entrance hall.
Deep breaths, I regain my calm as I storm along the, thankfully, quiet Sunday street, looking like a triumphant vagrant- mismatched pyjamas and a berghaus fleece, (unsure of the owner) my hair skew-whiff. I reach my sanctuary- the top of Balgay Hill and dream of my new life where I live on the beach, grow my armpit hair, drink from coconuts and weave friendship bracelets from Palm leaves, if only things can be that simple.
An hour or so of Forest Bathing, I return home, sane and refreshed from my otherworldly outburst. Typically greeted by a withered and worried boyfriend who has undeniably no conceivable idea as to what had unfolded before him and how could I possibly explain when I can’t bloody untangle it myself.
Although, I predict I have psycho cuntism, brought on through my maniacal menstrual cycle.
‘a female human being who knows that a month has thirty days, not twenty-five, and who can spend every one of them free of the shackles of that defect of body and mind known as femininity.’
Long Live the VEF and Gigi the psycho QUEEN!