Not For Cuppycakes

*msn: A worm is living inside me, I swear

A disclaimer (which is quite silly, since if I’m about to do something that requires a disclaimer, it can only mean I’m about to do something which will contradict, or seem to, said disclaimer, therefore possibly rendering said disclaimer false, but your opinion is entirely your own, as is my right to write a disclaimer so there):

1. I don’t cry. Well, not easily anyway.

2. I don’t like ranting in writing.

Because, you know, yelling at Boyfriend is so much more satisfying.

But all bets are off, when hormones are in the house.

(Oh, and:

3. I don’t like using clichés.)

It’s simply not normal to keep being affected by these insidious molecules. Hardened junkies are as titled, and I demand the same right. Chemicals are chemicals are things not to be quibbled about especially. Not. Now.

The problem is not in the actual “time” itself, but of the days before. Suddenly the mildest of stories pricks at my eyes and threatens to ruin my cool. (OH STOP SNIGGERING.) Suddenly the littlest of words, or looks, or acts become stone-carved reasons for a quiet self-inflicted death. Suddenly I want to eat everything in sight.

Yesterday I almost bawled over Little Men, by Louisa M. Alcott. And a beggar. And a busker. And a cat. And a magazine cover. It’s safe to say that had I spilled milk I would have cried. (Oh, the clichés! My lack of originality is painful. Tearfully so.)

Yesterday for lunch, my colleague watched, round-eyed and open-mouthed, as I proceeded to devour a cake of yee mee, plus a handful of tanghoon, plus nine meatballs and two eggs. Washed down with a glass of milk, followed by several handfuls of almonds, and a breakfast bar.

She, mind you, had one (ONE!!) cup of instant noodles.

I reached home that day trembling with hunger.

Today, I became quietly and deeply convinced that my eventual termination for utter incompetence was inevitable for the inarguable fault of simply being me.

No matter. All this, and the accompanying bloating, is perhaps to be endured with patience and chocolate as being reproductively necessary.

But this month, this month, THIS MONTH, the unavoidable is simply just not there.

And so the normal three-day limbo of teary paranoia has lasted a week (and counting).

This cannot go on. I may eat Boyfriend.

And so you see, this is not a rant, but a desperate plea.

Please. Bleed already.