Tagged: rage


Today, I Googled “PMS rage” because I hate you. And while it’s not quite representative of the rage, I do feel that this about sums it up:

Having PMS is like watching someone eat your newborn child while kicking you in the guts over and over and then telling you you’re the crazy one. Only the child is a bowl of ice cream that your normal, innocent boyfriend is eating. And it’s not that it’s the last of it, but it has the perfect balance of chocolate and cookie dough chunks and why should he get it because you got better grades in school and made this house into a home and organized all of your DVDs… And yes, you are the crazy one.

Now I’m not going to get into the whole woe-is-me thing because women have babies and we get our periods and whatever because yeah, obviously it sucks, but that’s really small potatoes. What I am going to to do is get you (you=men/boys/those with weens) to try to understand the uncontrollable rage that literally boils the insides of every organ in my body when I come home and see a piece of trash on the floor. Normal me would just pick it up (well, normal me would probably just leave it because I’m lazy), but crazy me insists you left it there on purpose for me to find, underneath the couch, as a way to rub my nose in just how little you care about keeping this house clean. That’s how crazy brain works, y’all, take a note.

In any case, I have one very simple rule and a pretty little picture to help it really sink in.

You are always wrong. If you’re wrong, you’re wrong, and if you’re right… did you just say you’re right and I’m wrong? Because I swear to God I will put laxatives in your pancakes.