Fuck You, Hormonal Binge Eating.

I would like to say a giant FUCK YOU to the 4 pack of Nanna’s apple pies I have crammed down my trap with ice cream over the past few days. Also deserving of a pointy middle finger is the entire loaf of bread I ate slathered in honey and butter. Sure, it was Khorasan fancy expensive bread, but my ass doesn’t care.

You guys, along with the block of Milka, several huge cooked cafe breakfasts, take away pizza and Thai food are the reason why my pants only fit for one week out of the month. I’ve had to go out in my painting jeans with the busted crotch simply because I refuse to buy clothing in several different sizes.

You are also the reason I launched like a fire-breathing missile towards The Husband last night for interrupting The Bachelor to ask where the toddlers fucking flat bear was. All this excess sugar means I am more volatile than Trump’s itchy Twitter fingers. And when my shit eating dog threw up on the carpet in my office yesterday, it damn near tipped me over the edge. I can’t cope.

Fuck you to the tell-tale cramps alerting me to the reasons I’ve become a foul bitch this past 48 hours. Fuck you to the super intense urge to eat anything I see like a ravenous beast. Fuck you to the night-sweats and the hormone surge making my armpits smelled like a cat pissed on them. How is this fair? How is this just? How is this right?

Sorry to anyone that has spoken to me this past week. That look on my face doesn’t mean I hate you, I just want to kill you.


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