Tomorrow, I hope to spend some time making my bedroom less of a musty, clothes-strewn pit.
I hope to hoover away dust and cobwebs and change my sheets. put stuff in the bin, away, up.

I say hope to, because mostly what happens in Saturday is I lie in bed, flailing around in my head.

PMS (or what might even be Pre Mestrual Disorder) has me in her destructive, hysterical, misery-addled grip. I don't want to say anything... just to stop thinking, keep stopping thinking, don't think about anything, because these reactions are not real, and won't last to this degree.

This is not the week to think about anything.

Though I think Mwa's description of it as being deluded that everyone around you is an asshole until you suddenly realise it's  you being the asshole is the most astute thing I've ever read about PMS. Maybe I have Accute PreMenstrual Asshole Disorder. How do they medicate for that? I hope with more cake. My mother in law left three hefty slices of trans fatty, sugary coffee swiss roll here today, and Bodhi and I hoovered it up - then I debated leaving the third out for Olivia to pretend she hadn't eaten, and I just couldn't face the rigmarole, and what if she didn't, and... I just devoured it instead.

Then Bodhi came in, horrified, and said he was hoping we could share it - shit, child, I hadn't even thought of that! How ghastly am I? I'm tempted to go buy another one tomorrow to make up for it. And also to satisfy my cake lust. But I should at least make something less artificial instead.

I wish I  could spend PMS week in suspended animation, on holiday from my brain.