PMS and Mood Swings

Fuck puberty.  The best time in my life was when I was a child; innocent and impervious to the treacherous nature of hormones and womanhood.  It’s indeed the panacea to which I could attribute all the best emotions of my life-security, tenderness, love, that blissful ignorance that only children are bestowed with.  I didn’t know that growing older would entail a slew of the worst emotions known to mankind, or rather, womankind.  When i would emulate my mom, slipping into her stiletto heels while she was at work, traipsing around the room in her attire, little did I know that I would come to regret the time in my life when doing those things would be the whole fucking point of my existence.

There are so many demands and barely enough room for introspection.  We should just tacitly agree to everything they ask of us- be kind, be warm, be gentle, be understanding, don’t be a whore, don’t be a gold-digger, don’t be a man-hater and always be pretty.  What if some renegade soul were to come forward and exclaim that all that she desires is to be left alone,on her own, because put simply, she just doesn’t give a fuck.  I mean, wouldn’t it be nice if she ditched the fancy clothes for a better personality?  Wouldn’t it be great if she learned to love herself despite the odds, despite the fact that the very forces of her existence are grounded in self-loathing and self doubt?

Let’s just say that sometimes, being a woman is a universe on its own.  All these intricacies and quirks that come along with being female don’t just end there, they expand endlessly to reveal mountains of strength and resilience, in the face of total madness.  There’s something so pure and so beautiful to womanhood, as we all experience it the same way despite being so different from one another.  I mean, the whole point is to devote our body to other human beings, to channel those visceral emotions towards life and protecting that life.  But in the process of reaching that stage, we do learn a lot about ourselves when madness presents itself in the shape of a normality that one needs to just learn to accept.

It’s an endless cycle that keeps on repeating itself until you just have to put an end to it, by simply acclimating your mind to its corrosive nature.  But that in itself, is quite a feat.  To be normal, to be calm and passive when all you want to do is scream at the top of your lungs, that’s when you unlock the achievement of having made it.  Womanhood is a whole path in itself and it needs to be rued over, to be pored over, to be accepted as it is.  It’s a glitzy adventure that bifurcates into restlessness and anxiety and the only way you can learn to grapple with these utterly hostile feelings, is to actually dig from your female basket of goodies which includes resilience, which I just mentioned above.  I think of that last sentence as a joke.

Anyway so I don’t get why I should judge others because they judge me.  Recently I’ve been having intensely negative emotions because the wellspring of goodness in me has been exposed to shitty people.  I love how shitty people-because of their intrinsic smugness-can delude themselves into thinking they’re somehow better than others.  I mean, these are the people that go to lengths to prove just how unique and enlightened they are, when in fact the only feeling driving those thoughts is a deep disdain for their fellow beings.  I believe that a natural respect for others is the hallmark of a pure and truly enlightened soul, because when you reach that stage, toying with petty, primal instincts should be the least of your worries.

And yet the closer I get to understanding how the vast majority of these people function, the more I want to kill myself because fuck it, sempiternal unease isn’t the way I would want to live life.  These people bask in this bottomless pit, and they have the audacity to judge others in the same predicament.  Isn’t it just funny how we abhor the insecurities in others just because they remind us of our own?  What an unevolved species we are, despite the manual dexterity, despite the inclination toward superiority.  What’s it all for, if we can’t even learn to be good to ourselves?

At night, when it’s dark and quiet and no one’s there to bother me with their fake concern, I like to imagine that I would want to be a better woman.  I would do what it takes to cleanse my soul and absolve myself of a guilt that was never mine.  I would concentrate on what’s inside rather than the preposterous obligations spurred by a draconian capitalistic world.  I would embrace self-love instead of throwing myself at opportunists and silver tongued devils.  But then I realize that being a better woman would entail giving up all that mess that gives this thing life, so nah fuck it, who cares.  Bye.

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