it’s PMS week!

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… oh happy days ahead! 
Another chance to delve into the depths of my paranoia and monkey-mind while eating chocolate and hating myself. 
Let’s just say in less than 24 hours after I had welcomed the prospect of adding yet another year into my age, I was reduced into mindless flowing tears, staring into the bumpers of a sea of other cars while waiting in morning peak hour traffic to inch forward towards work.
bummer!
Of all days, I decided on an eyeliner – I normally have no time for any of these vanity; it’s a marathon of dragging myself off the bed … bah! I kicked my Persian carpet {and being me and my carpets, I’d spend some 20 seconds delicately brushing the 1,000 double knots per square inch silk threads supposedly back into shape and realigning the carpet with the help of the parquet floor lines and the sides of my four poster bed} before heading into the shower mechanically cleaning myself while deciding on what to wear.

By the time my almost drugged like body steps out of the shower, it would have passed the time I’m supposed to be backing out of my garage, but… after 5 years in the Bank, I have sort-off earned the right to sashay in slightly past the last flexi-hour permitted by policy. By now, CEO’s ears are so accustomed to the response of “oh, Penny will sashay in shortly” he no longer bothers to make any contact or request before then.

depression hits me at no notice.
I was spiraling down the self-pity route. Followed by ways to kill myself.
Thank goodness for the existence of sea merchants and financiers centuries ago I tell ya! They who had seen the gap and created a need that gave rise to a new profession {one that is much hated in modern days}: the insurance sales man!
See, the only thing that keeps my veins from being acquainted with a micro-thin slice of metal is the fact that I’d only be able to claim the conventional policies and not the takaful-s … well, the personal accident is out as well.

By the time I had worked on a plan on how to outsmart the insurers of making my self inflicted death to appear like an accident, thereby being able to claim against the conventional policies, the takaful-s and the personal accident policies, I would have generally been too worn out to even feel any compulsion to deprive myself from any more oxygen and treat myself to pure blissful eternal sleep.

Point is, I can’t remember why I had wanted to die so badly.
Or rather I can’t feel the acute pain and emotional anguished that had caused the unexplainable throbbing at my temples that drives me with the need to end the pain pronto … and forever. 

Don’t get me wrong. 
I am generally {operative word here} exquisitely grateful.
The whiff of my new Annick Goutal perfume. The fog-, smog-, haze-free sky today. A relatively smart man rattling on about his convocation to the ever inquisitive radio dj-interviewer spilling out of the car’s speakers. The material things that ‘sits’ on the passenger seats which strangely gives me comfort and confidence to face the cruel world ahead. The thought of a cup of steaming Earl Grey…

The few simple things that represents me for who I am.
Scent. Sight. Sound. Tangible {in-tangible}. A lover and in love.

It does also strangely and in an ironic way reminds me and dangerously equates me to Mary {of Mary and Max (wiki) and official WEBSITE}.
Perhaps.

Perhaps, the gang was awakened.
The inner chorus of critic.
The shameful child.
The jealous competitor.
The selfish bitch.
The lonely avenger.

I don’t remember inviting them, but they have their way despite my best efforts to build extra white blood cells to deal with yet another viral insurgent.
The gang who comes and hits me at no prior notice!

They who make me want to drink Mocha grande with a slice of Chicago baked cheese cake at 10:00 ha.m, two hours after breakfast. Watch horrendously unintelligent television {which I am too ashamed to disclose}. Blurt out blunt, borderline offensive and rude retorts or statements that I regret uttering the moment it is made audible, but am too stubborn and proud to apologize. Lethargic and uninspired in all realms except in areas that includes “everyone else’s fault but mine” … especially the:

you are a man. you don’t get PMS! you will NEVER understand how I feel.

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… and for the last, I don’t think I am alone in this regard.

But I am convince I am alone when it comes to someone trying to blog about something else other than PMS but never got to the next level as I am too irritated and bothered with taming my cursor that has once again resurrected and has a life on its own! As it ‘jumps’ around, changing the brightness of my monitor every 3 seconds or so, and opens windows randomly to even buying a hopeless gadget for I-do-NOT-know what hobby/activity/machinery on eBay recently, I am ashamed to say that my water ducts immediately ceased to produce tears at this thought as I watched the world pays tribute to el Jobso {read HERE for an earlier Steve Job’s acknowledgement of genius!} in an extremely dimly lit hotel room that has a “P” crest as its logo along Orchard Road – just about the best thing in this overpriced establishment to me – my initial! my name! my birthday week. my PMS week!


ppsssttTTT … a really shallow admission: 
the “P” crest on the super fluffy bathrobe and super cushion-y bedroom sleepers does make me smile.

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8 thoughts on “it’s PMS week!

  1. Sudah bukak but belum pergi – not very inspired after the theftS…. but you are right, I saw another hoarding with Schmidt Marketing logo in the lobby facing Jln Ampang when I swung by yesterday to 'collect' a friend who has returned from London for siu yok lunch at Jln Baba, Pudu.And I thought Schmidt no longer did distribution, S&M in Malaysia. Dunno lah.

  2. Earl Grey … what does Penny, Star Trek and Mary & Max have in common?Black Tea with a touch of citrus oil.BTW does Star Trek and Mary & Max qualify as unintelligent television? Or is that American Top Model, X Factor, and what not reality shows?Or vampires, werewolfs, witches, rich debutantes and fake crime scenes?Too damn hard to figure! YOU laBen

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