I have one thing to say to you, you idiot.

BACK. OFF.

I don't like it that you talk to her, or write to her, or try to be funny/witty/sexy/WHATTHEFUCKELSE, she's mineminemineminemineminemineminemineminemineMINE.

*fumes*

Tweetie's got some guy hanging after her and I. DON'T. LIKE. IT. He's trying to be all funny and whatthefuckelse and is constantly writing to her and being all purrpurrlookatmelookatme and I don't like it. At all.

*snarls*

I've got my period and I'm not in a good mood so I'll keep this short. Why I'm not cutting this? Because, frankly, my dears, I don't feel like it. Skip it if you want, this will be everything you didn't want to know about me rolled into one entry.

As awritersfantasy pointed out earlier, they really should have a mood-icon for PMS-ing. There aren't really any mood-thingies that can accurately describe that feeling of utter murderous rage that will be the pre-stage for a bloodbath of war-sized proportions.

I'm fat. My panties are too small and they roll down my stomach when I sit. My boobs are too big and they don't fit in to the bra anymore. I can't get into pants that needs to be closed with a zipper anymore. I'm like a baby killer-whale. I'm ugly, I look in the mirror and I want to rip the skin off my face. I really honestly want to. I don't have a nice personality. I don't want one. I don't want to be all nice and smily and shiny and happy bouncy and what the fuck other things "normal" people are.
I guess I could buy bigger clothes or go to get my head fixed, but I'm poor. Boo-hoo, poor me. Whine whine, cry cry.

The best thing of all? I could write this in Swedish and it wouldn't be so easy to read for everyone. I could post it in a private entry and no one could ever read it. I could keep from posting it at all. But guess what? I'm a big drama-queen, but I don't want pats on the head. Pats on the head when I'm in this stage just makes me loathe myself even more.

What brought this on? The fact that I thought that I'd get chocolate for a small Christmas present. It wasn't for me and I got cranky. Then the batteries in my CD-player were out like a fucking light and when I waited for the tram there was some disgusting guy staring at me.

There's no way to accurately describe PMS.

I'm going to eat bread with salmon and some salad and then I'm going to cuddle Tweetie till we go to sleep.

I can't believe how fast my faith in humanity is sinking. Every day something happens that makes me hate humans even more, if it's actually possible. It doesn't have to be anything big, it can be just something small, almost insignificant, and it just makes me want to go on a hunt. I don't like feeling like this, but I guess since I had the unfortunate luck of being born without the bimbo-gene, I guess I've got to take it.
So...
Dear old couple on the tram to work:
Yes, I dress in black. It's not a trick of the light. Yes, that it a long black winter-coat (Tweetie's) and a black summer-hat ('cause my hat rocks!). Yes, I am wearing both together. Yes, that is, in fact, music you hear coming from my CD-player. Guess what? I'm now going to stalk your grandchildren and end up sodomizing their family-dog, because that's what people who look like me do, right? Uh-huh, thought so.

Dear ugly bimbo on the tram out to work:
Just... Fuck off.

Dear disgusting cunts on the tram on the way back from work:
You're NOT cool. Sitting there and howling is so out, didn't you get the fucking memo? All it does is making me want to go over there and rip you to pieces. You have no clue how close I was to do that. I will pray to whatever higher power that listens that you'll live a long, miserable life and that you'll spend most of it cleaning after other people.

There are no words to say how much I loathe humanity right now. I honestly can understand why some people go berserk.

On the plus-side though... You who work on the first floor in the building where I clean: you rock. Thank you so much for treating me like a human being and not like a part of the furniture or like I'm invisible. You all deserve flowers for being there.

Tweetie's home now. I demand food from Cindy's and lots of cuddling.

Over and out.

I hate people. It's as simple as that. No way around it, I simply hate them.

I'm picking up Tweetie in a few, and then I demand chocolate and cuddling and the right to rant.

I should learn -not- to read religious debates before breakfast in the mornings - some nutcase bashing yaoi/yuri in the name of God over at DeviantArt got me all riled up and so fucking thankful that I actually have brains enough not to force my religion on someone.

A note for those who'd like to pray for someone from a different religion: please don't. You wouldn't like it if someone from a different religion would pray for you, would you?

If you'll excuse me, I'm off to get me some chocolate and try not to rip that idiot to pieces.

Yup, still PMS-ing.

Dear people working in the little office upstairs,
Thank you so much for leaving a fucking mess in your office and for leaving dried-in coffee, yoghurt and milk in the dishes you were so kind to fill the sink with. It really makes my day whenever I look into your kitchen to see the hordes of cups and plates waiting for me.
So, please, you stupid fuck-twats - do your own fucking dishes and don't leave them for me!! I don't care that you might earn about ten times as much as I do, I'm not a fucking robot that you can just order around! I am a (mostly) human being and I have better things to do than standing in your fucking kitchen, doing the fucking dishes that you lazy cunts could have done yourself!! I don't appreciate having to deal with things you could have done yourself hours earlier instead of leaving it all to me. Yes, I get paid for cleaning up your messes, but it'd be so much better for everyone if you'd pull your hairy old cunts out of your fucking ass and did something of your own instead. It won't kill you, I promise.

Dear moronic asshole working in the big office on the second floor,
I am always happy to be left alone when I'm working and I'm glad that you respect that. However, when I enter your office and find you there, I expect that you somehow acknowledge my presence. Whether it'd be a "hello" or a "good evening" doesn't matter as long as you -do- acknowledge that I am, in fact, -not- a part of the wall, or furniture of some sort, or whatever the fuck you stupid ass think I am. I am a person, and I don't like to be ignored. I say "good evening" when I enter your office and I expect to be greeted back. I don't ask for you to start a conversation with me or whatever, I merely ask that you see that I am there. If you'd want to go back to looking at porn or whatthefuck you're doing, be my guest. But please, at least say "hello". Everyone else in the three offices have learned some manners from their parents except you.

To those mentioned above: when you die - which you will - I pray to whatever thing that takes us to the afterworld that the person watching the shiny pearly gates up there will have worked themselves up from working within the cleaning business, and that when they take one look at your records they will send you to a scorpion-infested rathole right beside the Lake of the Thousand Suffering Souls three floors down. No need for the elevator. When you get there, don't forget to sign in with your un-friendly neighbourhood demon who will be in charge of your torture and make sure that you'll get an appointment with Satan himself twice the day so that he can fuck you up your hairy cunts and asses with a rusty broken bottle. I will be there and watch and I will point and laugh as you get that bottle shoved so far up you can't see it anymore.

There are no words for how much I hate you sorry twats.

Sincerely,
Your tired-of-you-sorry-cunts-cleaning woman.

Yup, I'm PMS-ing.