Since you’re probably not thinking about my cycle, I’ll fill you in.
Okay, I won’t but, rest assured, it’s way worse when you learn what my special life-altering, damaging-in-every-way-possible condition, PMDD, is and caused by it.
Look it up, then kiss towards the heavens you don’t have to deal with this PMDD thing. Then thank the gods again you didn’t have to go through life not knowing what it was you’d been suffering. Women are gross, amirite?
Among the dozens of terrible symptoms this condition expresses, rage is one of my favorites. Anyone who has spent longer than a month in direct contact with me will know that.
The following was written by me on another social media site during a particularly awesome rage-fest followed by, what I’m sure was, full-body sobbing.
And yet, I’m still hilarious.
I think I’ve figured out the biological/ancestral benefit of PMDD.
After having a mind-blowingly terrible day, I was chasing down people who clearly don’t know how to drive. After finally parking, then having to stomp 5 blocks to my apartment, that is still the temperature of Satan’s sauna while I’m always hot, I figured out the real reason why PMDD exists.
I always like to try to understand why people do what they do by what tribal reason or survival/biological benefit is behind some of the more odd things about humans.
Like what’s the point of pubic hair? Or why do men feel the need to plant their seed in every goddamn hole there is?
Because there is usually a pretty good explanation.
Such as pubic hair protecting our more delicate areas from thorns and cold; and that men are pigs.
I’m in so much rage right now that I have the strength of at least 5 grown men. Grown men. Not like the tattling little bitch of a coworker who totally deserved to be put in his place today instead of running off like a dripping puppy with his little baby tail between his legs to our asshole supervisor who totally deserves her husband cheating on her. No, I mean real strength.
Right now, I could chase down a lion, pin him down, explain to his face why that gazelle doesn’t need his ass chewed on right now. And he, too, would tuck tail and run.
I have so much anger right now, that if the gazelle didn’t seem grateful enough for me saving him or I suspected him of not loving me enough, I’d beat him to death with my purse.
So, my point is that there has to be some biological reason behind this PMDD crap.
Like, if some little gray-haired “likes to pretend he was once in the Navy (if there was a nerd Navy)” bitch was the only man in my cave-dwelling tribe who couldn’t take care of us because he couldn’t stop wetting himself, someone like myself would have to take the club and go slaughter some ungrateful gazelles for dinner.
Otherwise, we’d starve. And right now, there’s no way in Hell I’m going to starve.
I might even slap the gazelles around first just to make sure they get it.
Keeping the tribe alive has to be the reason for this tormenting condition and why we’re forced to endure it.
I realized today that it had to be those ancient sisters of mine who had enough hormonal-fueled rage to grab the club from that little incontinent gray-haired a-hole to feed the rest of the tribe. Becoming more of a man than any other man, righteous indignance and hormonal fearlessness must’ve fueled that sister to slaughter a many an ingrate gazelle.
If it weren’t for us crazed, hormonal savages, humanity would starve.
We didn’t. We’re still here. Because of US.
We are heroes. We are barbarians.
You’re welcome.
Note: These are some of the comments from that social media posting. I think they’re pretty awesome, too. (I removed their names for privacy…)
I personally have recently come to the conclusion that the purpose of PMDD is so that we ditch any useless men who wouldn’t be much good at providing food or helping to raise children in the wild.
I was built to make children, too, so I figure I’d be too pregnant to do anything fun like smack a lion around. Too bad because I kind of wish I could. 🙂
This is brilliant and beautiful! I too would like to beat a gazelle to death with my purse. I like to think it’s helpful, once a month, to remind these parasites in my house (lovely children and loving husband, to be clear) that I am a dangerous monster and I am capable of destroying them if the mood strikes. They should be on their toes.
We either saved the human race or we just made us spread out more when we held a grudge so hard we permanently moved to a shack on the other side of the mountains in an effort to express how deeply they hurt us by not saying the right word at the right time.
There is usually a pretty good explanation such as pubic hair protecting our more delicate areas from thorns and cold; and that men are pigs.
Besides the entire post deserving an award for rant of the fucking year, this 👆🏻👆🏻👆🏻👆🏻 godamn bit of straight up gold has me dead ☠️☠️☠️☠️
Go OFF !
-NTZ
The No Toast Zone 