THE TRUTH ABOUT PMT

Beadle is another phrase for PMT. I’m not sure if you knew that, in fact, I wasn’t entirely aware of that until my fingers just wafted their paddy paws across the appropriate keys to spell out that sentence. It’s a funny old thing PMT. It’s so hilariously funny it’s taken me about 30 minutes to write that first sentence because it does prickly little things to your brain what mangle up the jibblies and make it all soupy, so instead of writing you look outside and sniff the breeze for 10 minutes, then take your dress off and furiously inspect your arms for 7 minutes looking for any spots, then you go to your room, and sit on your bed looking in the mirror for the remaining 13 minutes of this time span, sincerely pretending you were in a music video for the song that’s on the radio (just me?). I’ve had a shit day and it’s not because of me: It’s because of the thing that’s inside my womb, the tacky gremlin eating away at my puffly brain-box fibres. Today’s symptoms:


1 PARANOIA:
Oh god. All day long. My boss hates me? I’m pretty sure they’re all laughing at me for something. Maybe they heard me do that tiny air biscuit whilst I was weeing in the unisex toilet this morning? It’s probably because I’m a stupid walkover who can’t speak in full sentences. And I probably don’t speak in full sentences because I’m so worried my boss will take the piss out of me before I even finish what I’m trying to say, because anything I have to say is obviously a load of twaddle, because I’m stupid. And ugly too. Jesus I’m depressed. Where the fuck is my boyfriend? Probably shagging someone better looking with a better job and better abs. A six pack. Matching underwear. She probably only shaves her armpits once every 3 weeks because she’s one of those women with slight pubic hair. Like Anna Friel or Gemma Atkinson (Disclaimer: I have never seen, nor felt the aforementioned celebrities pubic hair, it’s merely an assumption based on their general aesthetics).


2 FAT AND SPOTTY:
I wore a large dress today to cover the fact my stomach resembled a 5/6 month pregnant woman’s belly, or a very hungry Bosnian child’s. It’s gets so large that sometimes there’s no point in even trying to cover it, and I may as well reap in the many benefits one gets with a foetus inhabiting your wombwalls: I can eat salt and vinegar crisps dunked in chocolate mousse without fear of reprimand, puke in public, buy those tiny, tiny trainers from shoe shops, rub my swollen tummy, and get offered seats on buses (the latter this the only benefit I’ve actually reaped). If the fatness wasn’t bad enough, I look shit in all of my clothes, nothing ‘works’, and my face turns into a smattering of spots, the sort of spots I didn’t even have in my worst peaks of puberty: touch one and the next hour sonny Jim and his best mate have got a new gang, who’ve appeared from the turf that is my face like fucking moles. GIVE ME SOME DAIRY PRODUCTS BEFORE I MAKE YOU CRY!


3 GUILT:
Shit, bollocks, tits, ginger nuts, big hairy balls with old bartles of dried sweat hanging off them. I don’t know why but I suddenly feel very bad for not doing that thing I should have 4 years ago.

Once in an English lesson my teacher thought it’d be fun to let us go through the alphabet and name a different swear word for each letter of the alphabet (it was 6th form so we had that kind of bond with a teacher where it was cool to be risqué as we were like, almost friends, because we were like, serious about our studies, and they were only like, students 5 years ago - you know? No? Went to quite a posh school. I digress, so it was like:

A = Arse
B = Bollocks
C = Cunt
D = Dickhead
E = ummm, whatever, etcetera, any way, somehow we got to Y and I shouted “YID!” very loudly and everyone went silent. I had PMT and couldn’t sleep that night thinking of all the Jews I might have offended, was Mr Lowe a Jew or was his nose just like that?


4 HORN:
N.B. The phrase ‘Rumple Stiltskin’ used to describe sex is not a phrase I commonly, or for that matter, EVER use, nor does my boyfriend. It was coined in a spontaneous semantic spaff.

God, I feel sexy. I’d love to have sex. Sex with that man who works in the Turkish restaurant near my house. Yeah I could go in there and be all flirty, then be the last one left and we could have sweaty, oily, Turkish sex in the kitchen. Or maybe I’ll go and watch some porn on the internet! Hey maybe I even want to have sex with a girl. Yep I’m totally bisexual today, just anything will do, I’m so liberal.

Sadly I’m not and it’s old Beadle playing up, so when my boyfriend makes the move for sex I groan, roll over and let him know I’m too full and bloated for the Rumple Stiltskin whilst doing a sick burp and swallowing the orangey juice tasting grossness like the dark bitch I’ve become.


5 ANGER:
Fucking Zeek off Neighbours. Or thingy’s son on thing. SHAVE OR GO AWAY. WHY IS THE FUCKING TV SO LOUD AND WHY WON’T MY FUCKING BURGERS GO CRISPY WHEN THEY’VE BEEN FRYING FOR SO LONG. FUCK OFF! ‘MUM I WANT DO A POO’ ADVERT. FUCK OFF YOU STUPID FUCKING CHILD. JUST PISS OFF. BOOKS! WIRES! CUPS! CRIME! SCISSORS! YOU’RE NOT MY REAL DAD. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH.


6 BRAINLESSNESS:
See previous five symptoms. Everything’s fine really.