Ode to the PMS

Everything is nice and sunny
until the black buzzard lands on your chest glaring at you in your face.

"Piss off" you tell the buzzard.. It momentarily falls off, flapping its skanky wings
allowing some sunny and optimistic rays through.

the buzzard flaps back on and digs its back spur inside your chest
the black cloud rolls in overhead. fack.

little things seem to take tremendous time to finish even when you're sitting and observing the task you'd undergo..

with a happy image that would conjure a Patronus, the dark clouds diminish into grey but with a lightning friction.

The buzzard loosens its chest crushing hold but does not move.

Then with the buzzard gripping your chest, you're on a roller coaster going up, down, left, right,
you're able to smile at people who you know do not deserve the buzzard-PMS induced wrath and you save it for those who you have the least respect for or someone-who's-taller-than-you-hogging-the-floor-to-ceiling-pole-in-the-subway where you're -too-short-to-grasp-an-overhead-pole to maintain balance in a NYC subway..

Then to your happy surprise when you're opening Fresh Direct boxes, you discover that Saint Alleviator of Moods is watching over you when you forget that you've ordered Jello Chocolate Pudding...