Please, More Sadness

Or, as it’s typically known. PMS. I am the most raging bundle of hormones that has ever been known, but none of my doctors ever believe it. I’m not kidding when I say I was about ready to check myself into the psych ward early this afternoon. I always wonder who will take care of the cat…

I threw my phone across the room. Twice. (Thank God that is has this amazing case, or I’m sure it would’ve broken.)

Finally, the only “cure” seemed to be a nap. And by nap, I mean crying myself to sleep for an hour. Dreadful. I don’t recommend it. But it was that or an afternoon of serious alcohol consumption, and I can’t really afford the calories.

I ended up going thrifting, where I scored these assorted teaspoons (I only have two—don’t ask), and this strange, cranking cheese grater. If I can’t figure out a way to wash it, it’s in the trash. We shall see.