Today I wanted to kill someone. You heard me. Mow them down, trample them to death, transport them to a virtual Sims house, delete all the doors and leave the carpet just a wee bit too close to the open fire place. It wasn’t even just one person I wanted to kill. It was actually a whole lot of people, most of them complete strangers.
It started with the cyclist who took up far more room on the road than he needed to. Then there was the wanker using the overtaking lane to practice driving at precisely the same speed as the car he was trying to overtake. And let us not forget the 19-year-old waitress who must have thought her memoir-length text message was more important than the job some poor sod was paying her to do (which at that particularly moment was serving me). Lastly, to my dear beloved colleague, who not only used my initialled mug (which also has my name written in permanent marker all over it) but left it sitting on his desk overnight to form a delightful pond of milk and coffee scum at the bottom. All relatively minor offences, I know. But on this day I would have sent an army of cards to chop of their heads.
It wasn’t until about midday I realised what was going on. I was pondering, stewing, murderously plotting in my office corner, and all the while wondering ‘why on earth am I this mad?’ You see, by nature I’m a very logically-driven person. This means I can generally logic-myself out of any negative or angry emotion.
Okay, so maybe that’s not entirely true. I think there’s some kind of tipping-scale, where an emotion reaches a certain crescendo, from which there is no rational return. But at least I can usually attribute said emotion to a logical source. And usually, someone cycling too far over on the road is not a logical source for feeling like you want to run them over with your car. Then it dawned on me. It was nearly the middle of the month and in the middle of the month I was due for my period.
Maybe it was all the violent images involving pools of blood that made me realise the connection, who knows. But I really thought, getting close to 30, I’d have this shit under control by now. I truly believed that my finely-honed intellectual and emotional discipline would rein-in any rambunctious hormones. Long gone are the days I let my impulses curb my decisions. Or so I thought. Men really have no idea what they're up against when PMS strikes, do they?