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Do not go gentle into that fucking fucked up shitty night, rage and piss and moan, kick people, damn it.

I haven't written anything in a week. 

I've been cranky.

I've been a cranky bitch and when I'm not being a cranky bitch, I'm sucking down huge quantities of carbs. I'm sucking carbs like a ... like a fucking carb sucking machine.

I'm telling you now, do not piss off the pissed off perimenopausal woman with PMS. 

Do not. 

I've had to deal with a larger number of ass holes than usual recently. 

They have only themselves to blame, being all ass holey near me when I'm in all my carb sucking cranky bitch glory.

If only they knew how much restraint I was showing. 

So my eyes glowed red and the tendons in my neck were taut, I raised my voice and may or may not have punched a wall or thrown a thing....

I didn't actually bite anyone, hard. 

Anyway, 

I'm feeling some better but, Jesus, this middle age thing is shit. 

Arthritis is acting up in my knee, in my foot, in my hands.

I'm all stiff and achy. 

I want to kick cute things. 


My sister took my elderly mom to the grocery store today and the tale she tells isn't pretty.

Mom giving nice people the hairy eyeball. 
Mom purposely crashing into other people's carts.
Mom saying mean things to the nice old man in the bread aisle. 
Mom saying mean things to the cashier. 
Mom saying mean things to everyone.
Mom, angry at the world, equal opportunity misanthrope.
 
As much as I want to run from the truth, I am my mother's daughter and it's not a stretch imagining myself in her place. 

I think there is a bitter old lady inside me clawing her gnarled stiff talon-hands, trying to get out. 

Like in Aliens. Only scarier. 

I think the bitter old lady just ate the skinny lady who has, until recently, inhabited my inner-self. 

The skinny lady had been patiently waiting to pop out all svelte and sexy at some point when that 60 pounds of baby weight I've been hauling around with me since my son was born nine years ago, shut up,  miraculously melted away.  

My cannibalistic internal cranky old woman is complaining that her recent meal of latent skinny lady was inadequate, was lacking in quantity and flavor and she's passing gas and belching loudly, like they do.

There is an angry old lady inside me just itching to get out.

She's complaining about the accommodations; cramped and and somehow drafty. 

She's complaining about the food; makes her sick and gassy.

She's waiting. 

Waiting. 

Getting ready to creak and groan and slip out of me and into my mother's orthopedic shoes. 

I don't like it.

It's sort of pissing me off.



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