My horrible, no good, very bad mood

Have you ever been in an awful mood? I mean, just a foul, awful, awful mood. The kind where you don't know why you're so surly, have no real reason for the surliness and keep ending all your sentences with "I swear, I'm going to punch someone in the throat!"

See? That's not good. Or healthy even. Especially for the person getting hit. But I've threatened imaginary people so much lately with throat shots that it must be that black bilious cloud of noxious anger called PMS.

Some people don't believe in PMS. I don't know any of those people. I just know that once a month I want to kill things. Me. Other people. My cat. Murderous rage flows through me as I wonder, "God! Why did you make me love food so much! My ass is HUGE!" Then I turn around and eat roughly my weight in cheese, never connecting one thought with the other, just remembering the hatred of all living creatures.

It's odd to be full of rage when on the surface things appear to be fine. Bills "appear" to be paid. My hair "appears" to be somewhat manageable. I "appear" to be fully functional. I have friends who care about me. A mommy who loves me. A job that pays me to basically be me, then write about four stories a week. Yet still, the craziness.

"What's the matter?" asked my friend Dave at the record store. I had no real answer. I had my formatted answer — I'm a broke divorcee who comes home to a cat. Why don't I just end it all before I wind up in a muu muu eating "Cherry Garcia" straight out the carton. All smoking Marlboros, straight, no filter. Holding whipped triple Mocha-Choca-latte-expresso nightmares from the Starbucks, whilst eatin' Cheetos, sippin' on Red Bull and being Kevin Federline's "Baby's Mama" number four. Talkin' about "You damn kids get off my LAWN!"

Move to the Midwest, get on section 8 and just watch "Jerry Springer" all day. Wear my hair in cornrows. Start using double-negatives and acting like I have nothing resembling common sense. Using "I been done it" in reference to "things I done did."

OK. Perhaps I'm being overtly melodramatic. After all, it's much more likely that I'll become a slacker and move into my mother's basement than marry K-Fed. But I'm PMSing. So tell me: Why is life worth living!?!?! Why, Bakersfield? How can there be peace in a world where Stockholm Syndrome has caused Katie Holmes to change religions and agree to marry her captor? Isn't it time for my former employer Patty Hearst to hold an intervention before Katie renames herself "Tanya" and holds up a Rabobank?

I don't know. It all just makes me so mad! Gas is $2.55 and all I've had to eat today is a large iced vanilla latte from Syndicate Lounge. George Lucas has $18 and about 2-and-a-half hours of my life I'm never going to get back. My kitchen sink is clogged. I'm just no fun today. Here. Go to this web site and enjoy a chuckle.