I am the Werewolf, she is me.

Last night I fell asleep at 8pm almost immediately after screaming — full voice, balls out screaming — at my computer for being too slow. This morning on the train I got an overwhelming urge to shove the woman in front of me. I mean, really overwhelming — I had my hands up ready to push before some tiny part of my mind said “hold up! That might be illegal.” Then at work listening to a podcast about Deadwood — a show I don’t watch — I started to cry. I cried again an hour later reading a blog post about Brooke Hogan’s new dress. This is PMS.

PMS for real — at least for me — is not as funny as the 1/2 hour comedy hour stand-ups led me to believe as a child. I expected to do a lot of lovably grumpy fist-shaking and chocolate-eating, not talking myself out of homocidal rages. It’s 14 flavors of awful — my pants don’t fit, everything hurts (especially my boobs, which ALSO don’t fit in anything), I am exhausted, angry, sad, and absolutely sure my “friends” are all faking it. Each month as I feel PMS coming up I wonder what fucked up shit I’ll do, because for that week, my brain belongs to someone else. It’s like being a werewolf, but with less respect. I’m not exaggerating — this shit is for real.

When I tell people I have PMS they never react appropriately, because the appropriate reaction could only be to say “Sweet Jesus! Just stay home. And lock your door.” I have tried to explain the severity of the situation to ex-boyfriends, who always seem to think it’s a blanket apology, instead of a warning and safety alert. If you knew a werewolf, and she was like “Listen…next week is going to be fucked up…I’m a werewolf,” you wouldn’t keep the TV on. You’d turn it off, freak out, and ask her what to do.

Guys — this is the right way to handle it (well, keep the freaking out to yourself.) You want to find out exactly what you’re getting into, and you want to find out BEFORE it starts happening. For some girls PMS is not that bad, they will cry at commercials for AT&T and go to bed early. Some girls don’t even get PMS. Birds like me, we will chase you around your car with a knife until we fall dead asleep in the middle of the street. Then a week later we’ll feel like shit for going crazy. It’s the scene in the movie where the werewolf realizes he ate his girlfriend. I know that feeling all too well.

So, until I find a good cage, or at least a job that will let me stay home for a few days every month, sorry. You’ve been warned.

–Also, please don’t suggest dietary or prescription hoo-hah. You think I’m not doing that shit?