I hate that each month, every frickin month until I hit mid-50ies, assuming of course if I can get to live that long, that there would be days usually spanning three to four days of which I will wake up and hating myself. From that self-hate will come anger and this anger will manifest itself into incomparable meanness. This then will automatically set a chain of events that by the end of that three or four days, I will most probably have no friends left and my family will most probably hate me so much that they will seriously consider disowning me. But I couldn't really give a rat's ass to the issue seeing that I am busy wallowing in self pity and angst ridden to the point that even Sylvia Plath and the army of emo kids around the world will be held in awe by me.

I fondly call these moments O' Shitty Days.

You know this as PMS.

We all collectively despise it.